


The Only Things We Share

by bagelgladiator



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roadtrip, Car Hijacking, Cat Thievery, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:04:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15105770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bagelgladiator/pseuds/bagelgladiator
Summary: “Are you telling me the police are looking for you because you—what? Are taking part in some Grand Theft Feline? Let me guess—you broke into some poor old lady’s house, stole all her cats, then made a break for it. Or is there some new market for illegal cat dealing? I knew my life of crime would eventually come, but never in this manner. I’m dying to know more.”Enjolras gave Grantaire a sideways glare but quickly flicked his eyes back to the road. “I’m not cat dealing.”“But the million dollar question: are you cat thieving?”Enjolras raised his chin and tightened his grip on the wheel. “Yes.”Grantaire burst out laughing. If he was going to be stuck in a car with Intense Velvet Cat Man, he was at least going to have some fun with it.(Roadtrip AU, or: Enjolras steals a bunch of cats from being put down and is now on the run from the police, and Grantaire is pulled along for the ride.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Most of this is written already, so I'll be updating pretty frequently. 
> 
> Dedicated to dreamtaire on tumblr for keeping me writing. Thank you! 
> 
> Title from "Atlas Hands" by Benjamin Francis Leftwich.

Grantaire finished off his glass with a long gulp and stood, planting his wobbly feet onto the floor. He weaved his way through the maze of bar patrons and slipped through the entrance. The night was damp and sultry, and the open air didn’t do much in the way of clearing his drowsy senses that had evolved in the dark interior of the bar.

Summer in St. Petersburg was turning out to be a rubber stamp of a time. First, bold and certain. Then as the days passed, faint and formless. Grantaire knew he was running out of ink, but he couldn’t bring himself to press stamp against pad even if his life depended on it.

All the summers in St. Petersburg were like this, and as such, Grantaire expected nothing more.

His dispassion was rooted in the very name of the place: St. Petersburg. You might imagine that great, glittering city built by a Russian emperor on a crusade of Western ideals, but all that _this_ St. Petersburg offered was palm trees lining boulevards and sunburnt tourists brandishing _I Love Florida!_ merchandise like flags. Whoever decided to name this place after the real St. Petersburg deserved to be slapped, or something equally as unpleasant. Maybe be forced to watch _Avatar: The Last Airbender_ on repeat for eternity.

Grantaire rummaged through his pockets, looking for his phone to call Eponine and ask if she would mind picking him up. He'd drunk too much to drive, and he’d already blown through his monthly taxi budget.

Scrolling through his recents, Grantaire clicked on Eponine’s contact and held the phone up to his ear. It rang four times before she answered.

“Hello . . . ?” Eponine’s voice croaked. She must have just been asleep.

“Hey, ‘Ponine. I’m kind of drunk right now, and I was wondering—”

“God, R, it’s three in the morning. This is the second time this week.”

Grantaire chewed on his lip and stared down at his shoes. “Yeah. I know.”

A sigh. “At the usual place?”

“Yeah.”

Grantaire could hear footsteps and murmurs on the other end of the line but couldn’t make out any words. It was probably Montparnasse, who had just moved in on their couch. Grantaire’s stomach clenched at the putting-off he was going to receive from Montparnasse for indirectly waking him up. Grantaire hadn’t even bothered to check the time. God, that was shitty of him.

That being said, if Montparnasse really wanted his beauty sleep, he shouldn’t be staying in their shithole of an apartment in the first place.

“Alright,” Eponine’s voice came again. “I have a shift in a few hours, and I need to be rested because my tip money has been low the past few days. I’ve gotta be super fucking pleasant, so Montparnasse is coming to pick you up.”

Grantaire groaned into the phone. “Fine, Eponine. But thanks. Seriously. And thank-slash-apologise to Montparnasse for me, too.”

“He’ll be there in fifteen.”

Grantaire didn’t get to say a final goodbye before Eponine hung up, probably diving back into her pillows to try and get a full six hours. Ever since she’d started working two full time jobs at a couple of restaurants around town, her usual sarcastic demeanor was less bouncy and more short. Grantaire didn’t blame her in the slightest.

Not wanting to go back into the crowded bar, Grantaire settled himself on the corner of the parking-lot curb to wait. He could hear faint music streaming from the bar at his back, but the sound of cicadas saturated out the lyrics. He was suddenly glad he hadn’t drank as much as usual tonight, or else the constant buzzing in his ears would have been less of the _Good Old Fashioned Nature!_ type and more of the _How Many Drinks Did You Say?_ type.

The neon lights of the West Flamingo Bar sign cast pink and green shadows across the parked cars, which reflected designs back against each other like harlequin mirrors. A new reflection was added to the mix as a gray Toyota pulled into the lot. Parking at the far side, right next to Grantaire’s own shitty Ford, the car’s engine shut off and its lights died.

Grantaire wouldn’t have paid attention, but as the music faded in and out of one, two, then three songs without anyone getting out of the car, Grantaire perked his head up. That wasn’t a normal thing to do, right? Was the driver okay?

Grantaire eventually decided to stand and investigate. He really did need to go over there anyway; he needed to make sure his car was locked up for the night, and making sure everything was alright with the other car seemed fair enough to do as well.

As he made his way over and turned to face the driver’s side of his car, Grantaire stopped dead in his tracks. There, leaning down and shimmying a pair of bobby pins into the door, was a young man. His was absolutely fixated on the lock in front of him, his brow furrowed in a concentrated glare, and stray strands of blonde hair hung down across his cheekbones. The lock gave way to a final click, and the man took a heavy breath and straightened, opening the door.

That was when his eyes landed on Grantaire’s.

They stood there, neither one of them daring to make a move. The tension in the air was as electric as lightning, and one imbalance would be sure to shock them both. The man—around his own age, Grantaire could tell—was squatting slightly at the knees, looking as if he was about to pounce, but his shocked expression belied any threat of attack. The neon glowing sign shown behind him, lacing his golden hair with psychedelic halos.

“Um.” Grantaire cleared his throat. “That’s my car.”

The man’s eyes flicked between Grantaire and the vehicle in question. He still looked on edge, but less so at Grantaire. He mostly looked like he wanted to dive into the car.

He didn’t. Instead, the man removed his hand from the door and held it out to Grantaire, palm up. “Give me your keys.”

Okay, so, two things. First, did this guy really think Grantaire was just going to hand the keys over? He had spent a whole $2,000 buying that shitty excuse for a car. They’d gone through thick and thin together. No one was taking it from him.

Second, the man’s voice was velvety. Grantaire paused, weighing the word in his mind. _Velvety_ . Yeah. That was literally the exact word to describe it. Velvety, with a dash of authority. (Okay, maybe a _bit_ more than a dash. But “velvety” also went along with this man’s physical appearance, so Grantaire was going to go ahead and take the liberty to use it as a catch-all.)

Regardless of Velvet Man’s voice and appearance, Grantaire shook his head. “No way, dude.”

Velvet Man set his jaw and huffed. His brow furthered deeper. “Give me your keys now. I need them.”

Grantaire scoffed. “Oh, yeah? Make me.”

Famous last words.

Striding forward, Velvet Man went to grab Grantaire by the shoulders, but even in Grantaire’s drunken state, he was faster. He usually wasn’t, but it was a reflex, with years of boxing unfolding into Grantaire’s fists as he stepped out of the way and made a punch at Velvet Man’s face. Velvet Man swerved out of the way just in time. Grantaire missed, his weight falling forward until he accidentally slammed into Velvet Man’s torso, sending both of them back against the other car. Grantaire seized both of the other man’s wrists and pinned him to the metal door.

“Seriously, dude,” Grantaire gasped. “Stop.”

Just as the words left his mouth, Velvet Man hooked his foot around Grantaire’s ankle and Grantaire’s feet were swept from under him, causing him to land on his ass with a thud that sent a painful jolt up his spine. Velvet Man crawled on top of him. Pinioning Grantaire’s arms above his head, he restrained any attempt to stand. Grantaire’s phone, which he’d previously had clenched in his fist, fell to the ground. Velvet Man pushed it away.

“Which pocket are your keys in?” Velvet Man’s head was hanging over Grantaire’s, blonde curls brushing against Grantaire’s face. Up close, Grantaire could see how sculpted this man’s face was, how its curves and lines melted underneath the pink and green lights. His blue eyes complimented the colors, but the hard stare he was giving Grantaire made the blood rush from Grantaire’s face. Mostly because this man’s determined gaze was terrifying, and also because this man’s determined gaze was hot.

Grantaire could just imagine the headline on the morning paper: _DRUNK LOCAL TOO TURNED ON TO ESCAPE MURDER!_ So, you know, basically a martyr. Of embarrassment.

By this point, Grantaire was beginning to panic (admittedly at his own state). “I’m going to scream if you don’t let me go,” he threatened.

“No one can hear you in the bar. The music is too loud.” Despite the levelness of his voice, Velvet Man was clearly beginning to panic as well.

Grantaire had to think of something, quick. “You’re right. But have you considered the fact that I’m clearly drunk, and I called my friend who’s coming to pick me up as we speak, and—”

At that moment, an engine could be heard pulling into the parking lot, and Grantaire strained to look to see who it was. If only the car would turn left, then he could see . . .

Relief washed over him. It was Eponine’s car with Montparnasse in the front seat, pulling into a space just across the way from where Velvet Man had Grantaire pinned down. Velvet Man clamped a hand over Grantaire’s mouth so he couldn’t yell.

He smelled like fucking strawberries. Jesus Christ.

“Please be quiet and keep still,” Velvet Man hissed in Grantaire’s ear, leaning down until their cheeks were nearly pressed together. “I really don’t want to take your car, but I kind of have to. I also don’t want to hurt you. At all. So please believe me when I say I’m genuinely sorry, but you don’t understand the magnitude of the situation.”

Grantaire was taken aback. The guy actually sounded earnest.

Velvet Man looked back at Montparnasse, who was now exiting the car and heading towards the bar, probably looking for Grantaire. Montparnasse was usually pretty observant, but he didn’t like Grantaire, so his focus was lost. Grantaire almost laughed.

When Montparnasse was safely inside, Velvet Man removed his hand from Grantaire’s mouth.

“If I let you go,” Velvet Man whispered, “do you promise not to tell anyone?”

At this, Grantaire _did_  laugh. Velvet Man promptly put his hand back, and Grantaire’s laughter was muffled by a field of strawberries.

“Okay, I’m going to take that as a no. How about . . .” Velvet Man paused, his mouth forming a line. He had a sort of pained expression on his face: the kind when you’re about to do something you definitely know you shouldn’t do but have resigned yourself to do anyway. Grantaire was quite familiar with it. Velvet Man, on the other hand, didn’t seem like the type who was familiar with it at all.

“How about you come with me?”

Grantaire knit his eyebrows. “What?” he asked, but with a hand over his mouth, it wasn’t like the guy knew what he said.

“Get into the car, and I’ll drop you off in about fifteen minutes on the highway. I just can’t have you so close to other people. You’ll alert them if I let you go, and I need some time to get away.”

 _No shit_ , Grantaire thought. But he was reassured. This guy wasn’t going to kill him. Didn’t even want to hurt him. Grantaire had been mugged once before, and this was _not_ usually the way things went. Far from it, in fact. This was a good option, and he should take it.

Grantaire slowly nodded, and after a bit of deliberation, Velvet Man removed his hand from Grantaire’s mouth and stood, offering a hand. Giving him a suspicious look, Grantaire took it and scrambled up. This night was getting weirder and weirder.

Before Grantaire could remove his hand from Velvet Man’s grasp, Velvet Man shook their hands up and down.

“I’m Enjolras,” he said.

Grantaire gave him an incredulous expression. “Why the hell are you telling me your name?” The name _Enjolras_ suited him, sure, but it was awfully stupid to announce it.

“So when you go to the cops, you know who I am.”

“Do you _want_ me to go to the cops? Do you _want_ me to give them your name?”

“Well, no, obviously. But I’m assuming you will, and I’m willing to face my crimes head-on. So, my name’s Enjolras.”

What a guy.

“I’m Grantaire.”

Enjolras nodded, and giving Grantaire a final Don’t Do Anything Stupid look, Enjolras immediately opened the back door of the other car—the Toyota he’d originally pulled into the parking-lot with—and leaned in all the way. Grantaire could easily shove him in and sprint to the bar, but at this point, he was just way too damn curious as to what the hell this guy’s deal was.

When he emerged, Enjolras was carrying two cats in each arm. He blew a stray curl from his face. “Could you please open your door?” he asked, jutting his chin towards Grantaire’s Ford.

Grantaire blinked. “Are those cats?”

Enjolras heaved an exasperated sigh. “ _Please_ open the door.”

With mechanical movements, Grantaire did so, and Enjolras plopped both of them down on the stain worn seats. Going head first into the Toyota again, Enjolras said,  “Don’t let them get out.”

Grantaire laid a hand on both cats so they couldn’t jump away while the door was still open. One was an orange tabby cat, and the other was plain black. “Can I ask—?”

“Here.” Enjolras interrupted, twisting over Grantaire and depositing two more cats—a brown one and a white one—on the seat. To indicate that they were finally done, Enjolras shoved three duffle bags into the back as well (careful to avoid crushing any cats, of course) and shut the door with a firm slam.

“Give me the keys,” Enjolras demanded.

“I thought I was going with you?”

“Yeah, but you’ve been drinking.” He rolled his eyes. “There’s no way in hell I’m letting you drive. That’s dangerous and illegal.”

Grantaire gave Enjolras a long look. “ _This_ is illegal.”

“It’s . . . okay, yes. It’s illegal. Just get into the passenger seat and give me the keys so I’m not forced to hotwire anything.”

Grantaire shook his head in bewilderment but went along with it anyway, making his way around the car and slipping into the passenger seat. He had to remove the black cat from where it was perched so he could sit down.

When Enjolras was settled down in the driver’s seat, Grantaire passed him the keys. Enjolras started the ignition, backed out, and turned onto the street.

The West Flamingo Bar wasn’t in downtown—it was on the outskirts of midtown, at best. They passed some shops and restaurants in utter silence before merging onto the highway, which was even more deserted than the main streets this late at night.

Well, silent except for the constant purring and meowing. Grantaire peaked behind him at the herd of cats in the backseat and watched as the black cat—the one that had previously been camped out in the passenger seat—kneaded it’s paws into the ratty old cushion. He would never have taken Enjolras as a cat person, or really any kind of person for that matter. He seemed too determined and focused to be mortal.

“So . . . cats,” Grantaire ventured.

Enjolras sighed. “Cats.”

It was silent for another minute.

Grantaire decided to test the waters more. “Why?”

Enjolras shook his head. “It’s complicated, and it’s best if you’re not involved. Actually, sorry for getting you involved in the first place. I would have chosen a different car if I’d known you were about to come out of the bar.”

“If you don’t want to talk about the cats, that’s fair. But I feel like you owe me an explanation for why you were trying to steal my car in the first place.”

“I needed to get rid of my old one. I heard on the radio that the police were tracking it.”

“Are you telling me the police are looking for you because you—what? Are taking part in some Grand Theft Feline? Let me guess—you broke into some poor old lady’s house, stole all her cats, then made a break for it. Or is there some new market for illegal cat dealing? I knew my life of crime would eventually come, but never in this manner. I’m dying to know more.”

Enjolras gave Grantaire a sideways glare but quickly flicked his eyes back to the road. “I’m not cat dealing.”

“But the million dollar question: are you cat _thieving_?”

Enjolras raised his chin and tightened his grip on the wheel. “Yes.”

Grantaire burst out laughing. If he was going to be stuck in a car with Intense Velvet Cat Man, he was at least going to have some fun with it. “Dude, why?”

“If you have to know, these cats were going to be put down at a shelter in Fort Myers. I rescued them.”

Grantaire hummed. “I’m guessing you don’t mean filled-out-all-the-paperwork rescued.”

“The place where they were being kept required a minimum adoption age of twenty-one, so I couldn’t.”

“How old are you?” Grantaire was twenty-one already, and he figured Enjolras was around the same age too.

“Twenty. I’d already placed an order for a fake ID, but it wouldn’t have come in before their designated euthanasia date.”

“You don’t already have a fake ID?” Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need one anymore, but I originally got one in high school.”

“I _do_ have a fake ID, but it’s only two months ahead of my actual birthdate. I used it to vote in the last presidential election.”

That was the most ridiculous thing Grantaire had ever heard, also the most Enjolras thing he’d ever heard, despite only knowing him for twenty minutes. Before he could make up a witty come-back, a meow came from near Grantaire’s side. The orange tabby nudged his elbow. Grantaire automatically reached back and started petting it.

“Anyway,” Enjolras continued, “now the cats are in my custody. I couldn’t just stand by and watch them get put down. Did you know that over 1.5 million animals are put down in shelters every year? That’s 1.5 million lives who’ve done nothing wrong other than exist. If you want to lower population rates, then hey, sterilization is the way to go. Frankly, it’s more effective in the long run. But these animals deserve to live. They deserve good homes and families. I know it won’t solve the problem completely, but it’s a good place to start. One step at a time will eventually complete a marathon, and I’m ready to win gold. It’s absurd to think that you can just take a life because it inconveniences you.”

Grantaire sat there, stunned. Watching Enjolras go on his tirade struck deep into Grantaire’s gut. Enjolras believed in so much and had faith in so many things it was almost painful, not because the things he wanted to change weren’t achievable, but watching Enjolras made Grantaire feel like _anything_ was achievable. Saving cats, climbing the Empire State Building, standing in front of Congress and telling them point blank that they have to change their policies or be faced with actual consequences. It was painful in a good kind of way, like the first sip of water after almost dying of thirst. Grantaire latched onto the feeling, because his soul was desperately parched and Enjolras was a never-ending well of inspiration dripping with hope. He was unwillingly pulled in by Enjolras’s charisma, and he relished every bit of it. _This,_ he thought, _is what being alive feels like_.

Enjolras’s proud demeanor practically lit up the dark interior of the car. He was Grantaire’s own personal star—something Grantaire would get lost without following. It was almost laughable. Grantaire, too sad and useless on his own, felt like a person again standing in Enjolras’s light. It warmed his skin and thawed his being.

It was at this moment, however inconvenient, that Grantaire realized he was in love.

In love with a man he’d only met half an hour before, who’d attacked him in a bar parking lot, all for the sake of a bunch of homeless cats. Wonderful.

Enjolras continued. “I’m bringing them across state lines to DC. I have a friend there who’s willing to take them and find them good, discrete homes.”

Grantaire was pulled from his reverie at Enjolras’s declaration. “You’re driving all the way to DC? That’s like—what? A twelve hour drive?”

“Fourteen to fifteen, depending on traffic,” Enjolras answered easily. He’d clearly been through the logistics of this a thousand times.

A thousand times, but none of those times involved accidentally bringing along a tipsy dude from a random bar in a random town.

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to drop them off at the Humane Society here in Florida?”

“I can’t risk anyone recognizing me, and after I took them earlier today, it’s made statewide news. Not national, though. Not yet. It’s a small story, and time’s on my side. I erased the shelter’s video footage, and that Toyota wasn’t even my car. They don’t know it’s _me_ who stole them.”

The fluffy white cat hopped up onto the hutch in between Enjolras and Grantaire, and Grantaire quickly scooped it up and held it in his lap so it wouldn’t disrupt Enjolras’s driving. The last thing they needed was to crash. Maybe if he held onto the cat tight enough, all his feelings would leave his body through osmosis and he could go back to not having a stupid middle school crush on Enjolras.

The orange tabby meowed loudly again behind him, and Grantaire reached back to pet it. Two hands, two cats. He could do this. Besides, for what other reason did people even have hands?

“You do realize I could just spill all your outrun-the-police plans once you let me off on the side of the road, right?” Grantaire pointed out. If he acted like he didn’t love Enjolras through poking holes in the plan, he wouldn’t have to confront those feelings at all. Now _that_ was a plan he could get behind.

“I don’t think you will.”

“I could.”

“Yes, but you won’t.” Enjolras stole a glance over at Grantaire. Grantaire’s heart caught in his throat. “You could’ve run multiple times while we were loading the cats up, but you didn’t. You helped.”

“Because you could have technically killed me.”

Enjolras just kept barreling on. “And now here you are, sitting beside me in your own stolen car, petting not one, but _two_ cats. Why you’re still here, interacting with me, I have no idea. But I think you’ve come around.”

Grantaire blinked. No one had ever said anything like that to him before. Well, the _come around_ part, not the _petting a cat_ part. He’d pet plenty of cats in his lifetime and was willing to bet there would be more in his future. But coming around . . . not so much. Even despite their weird estrangement, Enjolras still had faith in Grantaire, a complete stranger. Talk about optimism. Grantaire’s insides buzzed with warmth.

“Look, Enjolras . . .” Grantaire began. The name felt soft and divine on his lips. It was the first time he’d used it. “I’m flattered. Really. But I can’t come along with you on this adventure. I have work tomorrow.”

It wasn’t like he wanted to go to work. “Work” involved him laboring over a company computer for hours drafting new graphic design features for whatever client wanted a logo, or an advertisement, or anything else of similar nature. His thought his art was shit and didn’t feel like confronting any more imposter syndrome feelings, so skipping the office entirely seemed like a great idea. But that would be absurd, because that would mean leaving Eponine (yeah, also Montparnasse) and hitching along with Enjolras—startlingly determined, beautiful, compelling Enjolras—halfway across the country. Which he definitely did not want to do. He wanted to do that zero percent.

“I understand,” Enjolras said, “but I’m missing work for this too. I’m not even _asking_ you to stay. In fact, I’d rather kick you out of the car than have you tag along.” Ouch. “I’m just asking you to not spill the beans.”

Who the hell said “spill the beans”? God, this guy was an enigma. Grantaire was captivated.

“I promise not to spill the beans,” Grantaire finally conceded. Enjolras visibly relaxed. “But I do have a concern. How am I going to get my car back if you drive it to DC?”

Enjolras opened his mouth to answer, then shut it again. “I have no idea. I didn’t account for this to happen.”

“Are you driving it back down when you leave?”

“I’m staying there.”

“What about school?”

“I go to Georgetown. Besides, a friend hooked me up with an internship as a legal aid for the rest of the summer until fall rolls around.”

“Did you seriously drive all the way down here to steal a bunch of cats?”

“I was already here for summer vacation with my parent’s. _This_ —” He waved one hand around the car “—is simply me leaving early. I have to get to DC by Tuesday, when my friend’s internship starts.”

Grantaire made an “ah” sound, stroking the cat in his lap. They had three days. “I see. Same friend who’s taking the cats?”

“No, that’s Joly, who’s a veterinary assistant. My legal aid friend is Bahorel, who hates his job with a burning passion, so I’m basically taking over it for him. In high school we all met at a national leadership conference, and we’ve stayed in contact ever since. We’re all attending college in the DC area.”

“Is it just the three of you?”

Enjolras shook his head. “Eight, including me.”

Grantaire was impressed by the amount of effort they’d put into this. All attending college in the same city just to be near each other? Grantaire didn’t have friends like that. He didn’t even think that sort of thing happened in real life.

A few minutes later, Enjolras pulled onto an exit ramp and to the side of the road, flashing on the hazard lights after parking. “Thanks for the car, Grantaire. I promise I’ll find a way to get the car back to you.”

Grantaire remained motionless in his seat, and his hand felt glued to the cat currently padding its paws into his thighs. Enjolras was seriously about to drop him off on the side of the fucking road, even after that sort of heart-to-heart conversation they’d just had.

And, if Grantaire was being honest with himself, he didn’t want to leave. If he left, he would have to somehow find his way back to St. Petersburg, and once he was there . . . then what? Go back to working on graphic design for clients he couldn’t care less about? Getting back into his routine of going to bars every few nights? Sleeping off his drunken affections while Eponine overworked herself and Montparnasse slept on the couch? There was nothing waiting for him back home.

“How about this,” Grantaire proposed instead. “I’ll go up with you to DC. I’m not completely sober right now, but I will be eventually, and then I can take on some driving duties. Since you’re trying to beat the police and media, taking turns will get us up there faster.”

That way, if he managed to figure shit out in DC, he could invite Eponine up, too. It would be a fresh start for both of them.

“No way,” Enjolras said. “I’ve already wrapped you up in this mess too much.”

“It’s literally my car.”

“It’s literally my cat heist.”

“I don’t appreciate your attitude.”

“Well, I don’t appreciate your sass.”

“Just take me with you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Enjolras.” Grantaire shuddered a sigh and turned, angling his body towards the other man. The cat wriggled in his lap. “ _Please_.”

Something must have shifted in his eyes, because Enjolras was now looking at Grantaire with utmost acuteness. He was terrified Enjolras was about to say no or even go as far as physically push him from the car, when Enjolras’s face softened. “Okay.”

Grantaire’s mouth fell slightly open. “Okay. Um, thanks.”

Enjolras didn’t reply. He simply turned the hazard lights off and made his way back onto the highway. The flat horizon loomed in front of them, never becoming any closer, the fields of corn whooshing past until only a blur of green stood in their place. Eventually, the radio was turned on, but despite the constant hum of music, the oppressive silence ate at Grantaire’s insides. That look in Enjolras’s eyes . . . Grantaire had no idea how to place it, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect around 20k words. 16k words are already written, but I want to update at regular times. Expect an update very soon! 
> 
> I severely overestimated how long this was going to take half a dozen time already, but I think I'm getting the hang of guessing the total word count now (read: I have no idea but I'm saying 20k to make myself feel better).
> 
> Check out my tumblr enjolryas for any updates and feel free to send me stuff :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more road trip shenanigans

Grantaire awoke to a sudden lurch, and his neck snapped forward.

“Fuck,” he cursed. “Jesus Christ.”

He lifted his head and looked around, not knowing where the hell he was or what the hell was happening.

He was in a car. _His_ car, sitting right next to—

A very beautiful man, who was currently putting the car in park.

The events of last night came crashing down around him: Enjolras had assaulted Grantaire in the bar parking lot, dragged him along on this sort-of road trip, all while staging the world’s greatest interstate cat smuggling act. Grantaire blinked, hoping it was a dream.

The cat in his lap confirmed that it was not, in fact, a dream. This was now just another part of Grantaire’s upside-down life, and he was voluntarily in it for the long haul.

“Good, you’re awake,” Enjolras said. In the morning sunlight, he looked even more angelic than before. He’d put his hair up into a loose bun while Grantaire was asleep, so now only a few ringlets framed his face. His eyes bore exhaustion. “I’m stopping for breakfast and a bathroom break, and afterward, I’d be grateful if you could drive.”

“Yeah, I can do that.” Grantaire tried to blink the sleep away. “What time is it?”

“Seven.”

Seven o’clock: the time he would usually be waking up for work (AKA: way too fucking early). The cat in his lap hummed, as if in agreement. “Can we both get up and walk around? My legs are asleep. You know, because of the cat.”

Enjolras hesitated. Clearly, he wasn’t completely comfortable with Grantaire going off on his own. The situation, if taken out of context, was technically way worse than before. Grantaire had now been with Enjolras for over three hours, instead of just fifteen minutes like what would have happened if Grantaire had gotten out of the car last night when Enjolras tried to drop him off. If Grantaire went and called the police, Enjolras would be facing even greater charges than before.  

Grantaire wasn’t dreaming of calling the police. Enjolras sacrificed everything to save a bunch of cats on death-row, and Grantaire admired it like hell. It might have been dumb, but it was admirable. Besides, Enjolras held Grantaire’s ticket to a new life in DC. (Which was probably just going to be him floundering in between jobs, desperately cursing himself for quitting art school before graduating. But he wasn’t about to admit that.) Not to mention the fact that Grantaire didn’t think he could ever forgive himself for letting Enjolras go so easily. His heart couldn’t take it.

God, that sounded so stupid. He was an adult, and he was crushing hard.

“If we both left the car, the cats would be all by themselves. It’s nearly ninety degrees outside, and they could die of heat exhaustion,” Enjolras said.

Okay, so maybe Enjolras wasn’t as doubtful of him as Grantaire thought. Or, at least, he _was_ doubtful of Grantaire, but he was too nice to say it to Grantaire’s face. Their friendship was basically blossoming.

Grantaire peaked out the window towards the small gas station they’d stopped at. It was run down and looked damn near close to collapsing, but most of the gas stations in this part of Nowhere Florida did.

“Tell you what,” Grantaire said. “I’ll fill up the tank while you grab us a bite to eat, okay? I’ll make sure none of the cats die.”

Enjolras shook his head immediately. “I’m not letting you pay for gas. This is my fault, and you aren’t paying.”

“Fine. _You_ fill up the gas while I pay for food—that’s more expensive for you anyway. Then we can switch off and I’ll watch the cats while you go to the bathroom or whatever.”

After a few tense seconds, Enjolras finally gave up. “Fine. I’ll feed them, too.” He pointed his thumb back towards where the duffle bags lay, which were probably filled with cat food.

Grantaire transferred the cat in his lap to Enjolras’s outstretched hands and got out of the car, stretching. His lower back was killing him and his lower legs buzzed with pins. After a little more feeling returned to them, he set off towards the building.

The day was oppressively hot, even for this early in the morning. A heat wave must have been coming in.

Grantaire’s skin prickled when he stepped inside the cool interior of the building, a bell ringing upon his entrance. He let his shoulders relax a bit and was eternally thankful he didn’t have a hangover.

Below an old TV sputtering on about the weather, a gruff looking man stood behind the counter and gave Grantaire a stink eye. Grantaire smiled awkwardly and looked away, heading towards the bathroom. When he was done, he scanned the shelves for any breakfast-like subsistence.

 _O me miserum_ , what did ye ole deities like to eat for breakfast?

Grantaire shuffled through the rows, weighing his options. Twizzlers? A personal favorite, but something told him Enjolras was more of the balanced breakfast type. Chips? Also not great for breakfast, but Grantaire decided to grab a few bags for later in the day. He also grabbed a couple bottles of water.

Still with no grand breakfast revelation, he was about to settle on some sad, dry looking muffins when he noticed a stack of protein bars. _Perfect_.

He took two and headed for the counter. “Just this stuff, please.”

Back on the rickety looking TV above the cashier’s head, a news anchor was talking about some local blight on alfalfa crops. The cashier, bedecked in a beaten up polo shirt, began drearily scanning the items. Grantaire rocked back and forth on his heels, eager to get out of this place. Dismal gas stations tended to do that to a person.

“ . . . and the sheriff is currently pursuing the trail of the Fort Myers animal shelter thief. How has that search been going, Sheriff?”

Grantaire’s attention turned to the TV.

“Extremely well,” a man in his mid-forties answered. He wasn’t too tall, but his golden badge made up for any authority he might have lost with his height. He was standing in front of a familiar green and pink bar facade. “We don’t know his identity yet, but we’ve tracked his last whereabouts down to the West Flamingo Bar in St. Petersburg, where he dropped a stolen car off and most likely replaced it with a local’s. This local—who shall remain unnamed due to consent issues—is currently missing, which leads us to believe that he has been kidnapped. His cell phone, discarded and cracked, was recovered from the scene. However, because it has yet to be twenty-four hours, we cannot report him as a missing person.”

“And what makes you think that this man didn’t simply drop his phone on accident and drive off on his own?”

“The video footage from the West Pink Flamingo shows him entering the passenger’s side of the car, not the driver’s side. Due to the angle of the car, the person entering the driver’s side of the car was concealed.”

“And that still isn’t warrant enough to file a missing persons report?”

“Twenty-four hours is required to pass first.”

The reporter nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you, Sheriff Javert. Now, we move onto this missing man’s dear friend, who is extremely broken up over this whole situation.”

And there, appearing next to the reporter, was Montparnasse. He was wearing a dress shirt and slacks, no doubt put on just for his fifteen minutes of fame that the reporter was granting him.

“It’s just so heartbreaking,” Montparnasse said, his voice dripping with faux grief. “He called to be picked up from the bar because he was too drunk to drive, and I, bring the good friend I am, raced over as soon as I could. When I arrived I couldn’t find him anywhere and that’s when I realized his car was missing. We need to find him as soon as possible.”

Grantaire nearly rolled his eyes because the only reason Montparnasse wanted him back was for rent money. _Nearly_ , but an onset of panic was rising in his throat. The police were looking for Enjolras, and now they knew Grantaire was with him.

“That’ll be seven dollars and thirty-two cents,” the cashier said.

Grantaire blinked his attention back. “Right.”

He started digging into the back pocket of his jeans to grab his wallet, but all he wanted to do was run. What if the cashier recognized him? His image hadn’t been released, and neither had his name, but it might be soon. As Grantaire handed the money over with as much ease as he could manage, the bell above the door rang.

Grantaire jumped at the sound. Enjolras walked through and made a beeline for the register.

“Can I pay for gas at pump number three?” he asked the cashier. “The credit card machine out there is broken.”

The cashier gave a lazy nod and gave Grantaire a plastic bag full of their food and the rest of his change.

Grantaire coughed. “Um—“

“You can wait outside now,” Enjolras said.

“No, I mean—“

Enjolras went to hand the cashier his credit card and Grantaire practically lunged for it, taking it from his hands. The police might not know Enjolras’s identity, but if they discovered it, his credit card history would only be a few clicks away.

“I’ll pay. Go back outside.” Grantaire tried to put as much authority into his voice as possible.

Enjolras gave an exasperated sigh. “I’ve already told you, I’m paying.”

“No,” Grantaire grit out, “ _you’re not_.”

Enjolras looked like he was about to protest again when the reporter said, “We’ll keep you folks up-to-date on any news of this animal thief’s potential kidnapping. Now, over to Jeremy with the weather.”

Enjolras froze. He retracted his hand and put his credit card away, clearly understanding what Grantaire was getting at. “I’ll pop into the restroom, and then we’ll go.” He practically sprinted there.

“Where you two headed so quickly?” the cashier asked as Grantaire handed over his last remaining wad of cash to pay for the gas. The cashier's comment seemed off-hand, but Grantaire felt too wired for it to be taken casually.

“Oh, you know.” Grantaire’s mind was racing. He had to come up with something fast. “Kansas.”

What the fuck.

“Kansas? That’s a pretty long way.”

It sure fucking was. “You bet, but we’ve gotta get back to the family farm.”

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck.

“Family emergency or something?”

Grantaire chewed on his lip and stole a glance back at the TV. Weather Man Jeremy was pointing at some clouds on a map. “A tornado destroyed our house.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “I’m awfully sorry, young man. You know, if you don’t mind me saying so, you two don’t look very alike.”

At this point, Grantaire’s grave was dug. He might as well lay in it.

“We’re third cousins.”

The man nodded like he completely understood. “Gotta stick with your family, son. They’ll always have your back.”

Grantaire thought of his father and bit back a retort that no, family doesn’t always have your back. When the cashier was done ringing him up, Enjolras returned, and they headed out of the building together.

“This is very bad,” Enjolras said, shaking his head and shoving the keys towards Grantaire.

“The windows are open, I’m sure they’re fine.”

“No, Grantaire, I mean the fact that the police are on my scent.”

Grantaire climbed into the car, Enjolras settling in next to him. “And mine.”

He tried starting the car, but the engine grated in protest. It happened every once in a while, but the timing of this was impeccable. Grantaire tried again, and the car whirled to life with a cough.

“Damn this car,” Grantaire mumbled to himself.

“Please tell me we don’t have to take it into a shop.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s just a piece of trash. Fond trash, but trash all the same.”

Enjolras nodded, nose scrunched up. “Let’s get back to business. How do you know the police are tracking you too?”

Grantaire gave Enjolras a run-down on what he’d heard from the reporter about his roommate Montparnasse and that sheriff, Javert. Two of the cats—the black one and the brown one—crawled into Enjolras’s lap. Grantaire had never seen anyone pet cute cats with a scowl, but Enjolras was capable of even the most impossible things.

As they pulled back onto the highway, Enjolras put a hand to his forehead. “I didn’t even think about your phone being left on the ground. You need to use my phone to call Montparnasse and tell him you’re alright, that you haven’t been kidnapped. Make up some lie about . . . I don’t know. Visiting some friends out of town.”

“Great plan, but I don’t know his number; everybody’s number is just saved into my phone. I don’t have them memorized.”

It was silent for a long time, and when Grantaire glanced over at Enjolras, he saw that the guy had his cheek pressed against the window.

“Tired?”

Enjolras straightened. “No. I’m thinking. We need to figure this out.”

Grantaire wanted to wipe that worried expression off his face. A guy like Enjolras was worthy of everything good on this horrid shell of an earth, and bad things just shouldn’t happen to him. “Well, eat your protein bar and get to sleep. We can’t do anything about it now.”

“I don’t need to sleep.”

“When was the last time you slept?”

Enjolras ignored the question. “I need to figure out how to solve this. Maybe we should steal another car.”

“Oh, and that went so well last time.”

“If they’re tracking _your_ car . . .”

“Look,” Grantaire sighed. “As much as you may or may not want it, we’re partners now. We have to trust each other. Get some rest before you fall unconscious, or worse, give me an ethics lesson on animal rights. I’ll wake you up if anything happens.”

After a few more minutes of deliberation, Enjolras put the seat back and shut his eyes. The two cats burrowed snuggly into his lap.

Grantaire hoped Enjolras was actually sleeping instead of just thinking of new ways to dispatch of Grantaire under the impression of sleep.

Still, he kept driving. The car stuttered along asphalt and ambition towards DC.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out my tumblr enjolryas and feel free to shoot me questions and such :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> car incidents happen...cats are petted...false security exists

A pleasant sight: Enjolras sleeping, completely unaffected. No hard stares, no furrowed brow. Just a face peaceful to and ignorant of the world.

A not so pleasant sight: smoke wafting out of the hood of the car.

Grantaire cursed, rousing Enjolras from his slumber. The guy had gotten a good six hours of sleep and had managed not to wake up even when Grantaire picked up lunch. Sure, Grantaire had only gotten three hours of sleep the night before, but that was typical enough for him. Enjolras deserved more.

“What’s happening?” Enjolras asked groggily, rubbing his eyes. A tuft of hair was sticking out of his bun. Sleepy Enjolras was adorable.

“This stupid car is acting up.” Grantaire pulled onto the side of the expressway and stopped.

Enjolras squinted. “Is that . . . smoke?”

Before Grantaire could answer, a large popping sound came from the hood. Grantaire and Enjolras flinched in sync. Another pop came.

Grantaire frantically slapped Enjolras’s shoulder. “Get out of the car.”

Without being prompted further, they hustled from the car and wrenched the back doors open to scoop up cats like their lives depended on it.

While Grantaire was in charge of herding the cats on the ground to make sure they didn’t run off, Enjolras grabbed the three duffle bags and set them up in a triangle pattern, leaving a clear space in between. It was just beyond the ridge of the expressway, so passing cars wouldn’t be able to see. The road had been pretty empty so far, but who knew when a tourist van was going to come along.

“Put them in here,” Enjolras ordered.

Grantaire did so, and when all the cats were inside, Enjolras draped himself around the duffle bags’ sides to make sure none of the cats could crawl out. It was easier said than done.

The popping sound hadn’t stopped, and it was only getting more loud and violent.

“What the hell is happening?” Enjolras yelled so he could be heard.

“This car is over twenty years old, dude. Do I look like I know shit about cars?”

No sooner had Grantaire said that did the hood burst into flames. Grantaire clapped both hands over his mouth. He sweet, beautifully shitty baby was on fire.

Enjolras almost fell backwards onto the grass. “We need to get the hell out of here.”

“How? We have four fucking cats, and if you hadn’t noticed, we’re on the side of the road with no more transportation options _because my car is on fire_.”

Enjolras struggled with the cats, his hair falling out of his bun and into his face. “Are we near any exits?”

“There’s one ahead, but we can’t just walk there. We can’t just leave my car.”

“Well, we have to. This mess is going to draw too much attention.”

Grantaire groaned. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty, because that’s one of the most idiotic things I’ve ever heard.”

If Grantaire wasn’t mistaken, Enjolras’s ears turned pink. “Just—just watch the cats. I’ll be right back.”

Not wanting to press further, Grantaire did so. He laid himself on top of the duffle bags and positioned his arms and legs like jail bars. A mess of fur shuffled beneath him. 

Enjolras rushed up the ridge, looking either way for oncoming traffic. There must not have been, because he then skittered to the car and crouched down near the back. Grantaire’s heart pounded. Enjolras was going to kill himself doing whatever the hell this was.

Not thirty seconds later, Enjolras sprang up and raced back down. He had something in his hands—the license plate, Grantaire realized. Enjolras then dug through his pocket and brought his phone to his ear after quickly typing something in.

“Hey—Combeferre? Combeferre! I need some advice.” It was silent for a few seconds and Enjolras winced. “Yeah, I know I haven’t been calling as often as I promised, but there were some . . .” Enjolras stole a look towards Grantaire, still contorted over the duffle bags to keep the cats safely inside. “ . . . unforeseeable circumstances that came up. But that’s not the point. Do car fires naturally go out? If not, how fast is the average firetruck?”

A muffled yell came across the other line.

“I don’t know! It just happened! We’re safe though, and—yes, _we_ . I picked up this guy Grantaire and a couple of cats . . . I may or may not have stolen them?” Enjolras looked up at Grantaire’s inflamed car. “It’s not like we’re _in_ the burning car, so it’s fine!”

“Ask if there’s any salvation for my poor baby,” Grantaire pleaded.

Enjolras shushed him. “Alright, ‘Ferre. I’ll update you on anything else that happens. See you soon.” He shut his phone and quickly gestured towards Grantaire. “He said to get the hell out of here. Actually, it might have been Courfeyrac yelling that, but it was too loud to distinguish their voices. Regardless, dump half of my clothes out from each bag and put the cats inside.”

It wasn’t a request.

Grantaire and Enjolras worked together, pulling out half the contents from each duffle. It turns out Enjolras really _had_ planned this entire thing out. One of the bags had cat food and litter box containers in it. The other two had clothing and books: personal items that somebody would pack if they were traveling. Enjolras really was serious about living in DC.

Grantaire's hands worked like lightning, moving things from bag to ground so fast his mind could barely keep up. If someone were to pass by, they would call the police and a firetruck would arrive. He and Enjolras couldn't be here when it did.

But Grantaire didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about either of them getting arrested, or the cats being taken back. He pushed the thoughts from his mind, instead wondering who Combeferre and Courfeyrac were and how Enjolras trusted them so much as to let them in on his secret cat-escapade without a single hesitation. He wanted to be close to Enjolras like that.

Barely a minute later when everything was gotten rid of and hidden in the brush of the expressway, they started packing cats into the bags. One in each, except for the last bag, which had two. Grantaire and Enjolras both had the same idea of not zipping the bags up, which seemed self-explanatory. Air was a pretty vital thing.

Grantaire was stronger, so he slung two of the duffles over each shoulder. Enjolras followed suit with the last one.

“Which way is the closest exit?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire pointed in front of them, towards the direction that the still-burning car was originally heading. “Seven miles in that direction—some town called Eastover. We passed into North Carolina a little while ago.”

Enjolras stared, then hitched his bag up further. “Let’s go then.”

Grantaire blanched. “No fucking way. It’s ninety degrees out, and it’s seven miles. Seven fucking miles. All we have is two plastic water bottles—already opened, may I remind you—and nothing in the way of food except for those chips I picked up. I got lunch, but you didn’t. This is a death walk for you.”

“Do you have any better opinions?”

“ . . . Call an Uber?”

“Grantaire.”

“Okay, okay. I get it. You’re worried about background checks and overall safety—that’s understandable. Riding with Lyft is cool too.”

“Grantaire.”

"But if you're more of an old-fashioned sort of guy, I bet we can call a taxi. My uncle used to be a taxi driver, actually. Well, he was either a taxi driver or an accountant. I can never remember that sort of stuff. I mean, ask me about the man who invented the taximeter all you want—it's Wilhelm Bruhn, in case you were wondering—but family stuff? Who's to say?" 

" _Grantaire_."

“Yes, dear?”

“Don’t call me—whatever. If you’re going to argue, at least make it worthwhile. We don’t _just_ have a burning car now, we have a burning car that the police are tracking. I was thinking about it while you were driving—if they know it’s your car, they’ll have a much easier time finding us. That’s why your license plate has to be hidden. Let’s walk to Eastover, and we can hide it once we get there. It’s all we’ve got.” He held up the license plate to Grantaire as if Grantaire couldn’t see it already.

“No, we also have literally any other option. Like maybe calling AAA. Okay, don’t give me that look. I’m spitballing here.”

Enjolras had both hands on his hips, which looked funny since he was still holding the license plate. “Well, I’m going to Eastover. If you aren’t coming, then give me the cats. I can always buy new clothes if I can’t carry all three bags, but those cats have to get to DC.”

“With any more weight, you’re definitely going to die of heatstroke.”

“Then come with me.”

“Enjolras . . .”

“Regardless of what you decide to do, I’m leaving.”

He couldn’t possibly be for real. The walk would take hours, and they were lugging godforsaken cats with them. Cats en masse weighed a ton. But it was Enjolras and as far as Grantaire was aware, Enjolras was always for real.

To prove Grantaire’s worst fears, Enjolras set off in the direction Grantaire had pointed. Grantaire sighed and shifted the bag on his shoulder, knowing he’d follow this man to the end of the earth. He just wished he had a bike or something.

Maybe not a tandem bicycle, though. Well, alright, _maybe_ . But it would have to have one of those cool wicker baskets in the front and at least _some_ flames painted on it. Grantaire tried imagining Enjolras on a bike, his hair billowing in the wind behind him, and it was all he could do not to burst out laughing right then and there. They would make a great pair of crime-fighting bicyclists. They would ride around the country and free cats everywhere, and when they were done, they’d return to their superhero hideaway and make a toast to not getting arrested yet.

They would be a tour de force. Grantaire smiled.

 

x x x  

 

Three hours and buckets of sweat later, Grantaire and Enjolras arrived in Eastover. It was just as Grantaire had imagined: stout little houses and little to no businesses. They hadn’t traveled far along the main road for long (after all, two college-aged guys carrying mysterious duffle bags were certainly a memorable sight) and had instead opted to stick to the surrounding woods like a bunch of creeps. Just as Grantaire was going to tell Enjolras that he was actually going to call the cops if they didn’t take a rest, Enjolras stopped dead in his tracks. Grantaire bumped into him.

“There,” Enjolras said, pointing through some trees. “You see that?”

Grantaire squinted. Beyond the forest line stood a quaint two story house. It didn’t seem like much, but as Grantaire looked longer, he noticed painted letters above the front entrance. “Solstice Bed and Breakfast,” Grantaire read. “Are you saying we’re stopping here?”

Enjolras looked beat. “Yes. We can’t walk any longer, and I’m going to pass out of I don’t get water soon.”

The two water bottles Grantaire had gotten at the gas station had quickly disappeared during their trek. Grantaire couldn’t have agreed more with Enjolras’s suggestion. His head was pounding, his feet felt like they were being stabbed and being injected with a numbing agent at the same time. His mouth felt swollen and stuffed with cotton balls, and his stomach gnawed at his insides. About four miles in, he’d considered eating some of the cat food. (But, as one might expect, eating cat food is evidently not how you impress cute boys.)

“I don’t have money to pay for anything,” is all Grantaire said.

“I resold all of my old textbooks before I left, so I have a few extra hundred dollars tucked away in case of emergency. I’d say this qualifies as an emergency.” Enjolras’s limp waves of hair brushed his shoulders as he nodded to himself. Witnessing exhaustion on someone like Enjolras was a surreal experience.  “We need to bury this license plate first, though.”

They found a little plot of dirt under a nearby tree and got to work. They were already soaked in sweat—a little dirt wasn’t that big of a deal at this point. Grantaire’s sluggish limbs protested with every movement as they dug their hands into the earth but soon enough, a two-foot deep hole lay before them. The plate was stuck inside and covered.

One accomplishment down, fifteen hundred more to go.  

With a final shared look between the two of them—Enjolras giving Grantaire a reassuring smile that sent Grantaire’s hollow stomach into a jittery twist—they stood and trudged towards the bed and breakfast together.

It was old and some of the shingles were missing, but it had a nice gingerbread charm that the other houses they’d passed lacked. The dark indigo paint was peeling in chunks onto the ground, but despite the second-rate appearance, the house radiated cheerfulness. Sort of like whenever Grantaire used to go to his grandmother’s house: it might not look pretty, but there were always homemade chocolate chip cookies waiting inside.

They stepped up onto the porch, and Enjolras leaned in and wrapped an arm halfway around Grantaire’s torso.

“What are you doing?” Grantaire asked, his voice a few octaves higher than usual.

Enjolras didn’t answer—he just continued his motion until it was clear that he was reaching over to zip up both of Grantaire’s cat bags. When he was done, he rocked back onto his heels. “For discretion. We’ve got to unzip them as soon as possible once we’re inside.”

Grantaire’s cheeks burned. Of course Enjolras wasn’t hugging him. God, he could still feel the echo of Enjolras’s touch. His nerve endings felt frayed.

Enjolras still looked as driven as usual. He knocked on the door of Solstice Bed and Breakfast without a second glance.

They waited only thirty seconds before it swung open, revealing a young woman in a worn looking dress with her hair pulled back in a low bun. She looked tired. Even still, a bright smile accented the healthy flush of her cheeks. Grantaire didn’t know what he’d expected, but it sure as hell wasn’t a person so young; he’d figured only old people owned bed and breakfasts.

“Welcome to Solstice Bed and Breakfast!” she greeted, holding her hand out first to Enjolras, then to Grantaire. She had a firm shake, but in a friendly sort of way.

“Hello, ma’am.” Enjolras returned the smile. It flashed in the daylight, and Grantaire’s knees felt weak. “We were wondering if we could stay here for the night. We can pay.”

The woman nodded and her smile brightened. Grantaire felt like he was watching a ping pong game of respect. “Absolutely. Just come inside, and I can check you right in.” She opened the door further, and Grantaire and Enjolras followed her in.

They were in an old-timey foyer, complete with a brass chandelier and a smattered collection of lurid wallpaper. The hardwood floors were lined with a long red carpet that led all the way down the hall towards a reception desk. The woman hurried behind the desk and started sorting through papers.

After introducing herself as Fantine, Enjolras and Grantaire gave her their own names. (Not their actual _full_ names, but “Enjolras” stayed the same and Grantaire used the nickname Eponine had given him, “R”). Grantaire gave the same spiel about their distant familial relationship and their tragic Kansasian farm incident. Fantine seemed pretty affected by this but was kind enough to offer her help with anything if they needed it. She gave off a maternal aura that calmed Grantaire down more effectively than any drink or cigarette had, and given the fact that Grantaire’s feelings were already strained enough around Enjolras’s presence, he could use any emotional comfort he could get.

And he would need a fuck-ton of emotional comfort very soon, because even though all the rooms were currently empty, they only had single beds. As soon as Fantine had said “single bed,” Grantaire’s stomach dropped. They couldn’t afford to rent two rooms out.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to go back to St. Petersburg after all.

But he had no chance of escape because before he knew it, Fantine was funneling him and Enjolras up the small staircase to the second floor and into an even smaller room, featuring more gaudy wallpaper and a creepy portrait of an old man. The only reassuring quality about the room was that it had an air conditioning unit in the window, and Grantaire’s sticky skin sighed in thankfulness.

Fantine pointed to the portraited man. “You can take that down if you want. I would have done it myself but it was up too high.”

Enjolras immediately lifted it off its nail and placed it backwards against the wall.

“The bathroom is here and there’s already toiletries laid out,” she said, indicating a door next to the bed. “If you need anything else, I’ll just be downstairs preparing dinner.” With that, she swept herself from the room, and Grantaire and Enjolras were left alone.

After a few seconds of silence, Enjolras cleared his throat. “We should empty the cats out in the bathroom.”

He opened the door to the bathroom and set his duffle bag down, and Grantaire followed suit with the other two and shut the door behind him. Enjolras unzipped the bags carefully and scooped out each cat onto the tile floor. Grantaire had been carrying three of the four, but the ache in Grantaire’s back wanted to tell him otherwise.

After growing somewhat familiar with each of them during the trip, he figured out pretty fast the personalities of each of the cats. The first one, clearly the most pompous if the four, was the fluffy white one. Then there was the orange tabby who wanted to be petted 24/7. In contrast, the brown one with a sideways cross on its chest didn’t like to be touched whatsoever. Grantaire’s personal favorite, the black cat, was aloof enough to give off the impression that he didn’t like getting petted, but Grantaire had found a sweet spot behind his ears that he seemed to like a lot.

Enjolras awkwardly free-poured some cat food onto the tile, and the four of them went to town.

An oppressive silence soon settled over them. Wanting to break it Grantaire asked,  “What are their names?”

Tucking a curl behind his ear, Enjolras set the cat food down and settled himself on the edge of the tub. He patted the space to his right. Grantaire sat.

“I don’t actually know what their names are. I’m pretty sure the shelter had names for them, but I was in such a rush that I didn’t have time to figure it out. I think the orange one is named Toffee or something? I’m not sure.”

Grantaire leaned down and ran his hand over the orange cat’s fur. “We should totally name them.”

Enjolras scrunched up his nose. God, he was cute. “Do you think we’re in a position to do that? It’s not like they’re ours.”

“They are for now. We’re cat dads.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Grantaire immediately figured out what “Remorse is the poison of life,” meant. His grip tightened on the edge of the tub, and he looked straight ahead, refusing to meet Enjolras’s eyes.

“Not like we’re their dads or anything,” Grantaire rushed. “We’re not husbands.”

 _Oh my God_. Grantaire wished to snap his fingers and instantly disintegrate.

Enjolras let out a nervous laugh. “No, I guess not.”

 _I guess not_? What the hell did that mean?

“But,” Enjolras added quickly, “we could still always name them. You have a good point.”

Grantaire’s head was spinning. Here he was, sitting less than an inch away from Enjolras (God, he could feel the heat of Enjolras’s body from so close) and he was being complimented on a spontaneous idea for naming a bunch of stolen cats. Just a day before when Grantaire had arrived at that bar and took his first drink (was that really just one day ago?) he couldn’t have ever imagined what was happening right now.

He also couldn’t imagine living the rest of his life _not_ having this happen right now.

“So,” Grantaire started. “How about we keep the name of the orange cat Toffee? Seems fitting.”

Enjolras nodded like he was deciding between a life or death situation. “That makes sense. I agree.”

Grantaire _also_ couldn’t imagine Enjolras ever stating “I agree” to something he had said, but at this point, he was used to being surprised.

Grantaire pointed towards the white one. “Cleopatra, because she’s a queen.”

“You don’t know the gender of these cats.”

“Gender is a social construct.”

At that, Enjolras smiled. “You know what, it’s perfect.”

Grantaire was hopeless to hide his own smile. “And the black one should be named Hamlet because he’s emo but secretly a softy.”

Letting out a bark of laughter, Enjolras rocked suddenly forward on the tub and lost his balance. He must have been very sleep deprived to actually _laugh_. But Grantaire had fast reflexes, and he automatically reached his arms out and caught Enjolras around the midsection so he wouldn’t fall. Enjolras gasped and grabbed onto Grantaire’s bicep.

They both froze—Enjolras half in Grantaire’s lap and Grantaire half having a heart attack. Even in the poor lighting of the bathroom, Enjolras’s eyes were so bright and so close and his cheeks were so flushed from laughing. He was beautiful, and he was spirited, and he was everything Grantaire wanted.

And, of course, he still smelled like strawberries. Did he have a pact with the gods? Did they grant him eternal strawberry scent in return for a crusade of justice—even through the wear and tear of ninety degree treks in the wilderness?

Enjolras’s cheeks flushed further as he shifted to get a better perch on the tub. Their thighs rubbed against each other, and Grantaire had just enough time to realize that his hand was under Enjolras’s shirt and that he was gripping Enjolras’s waist before they both sprang apart. They scooted to the far sides of the tub in a rush.

Grantaire’s face felt like a furnace. His entire body did, actually. Enjolras looked just as disarranged: his eyes wide and unblinking, his lips slightly open, his hair a wild organization of curls. Both of their chests heaved in sync, and Grantaire was terrified Enjolras could hear his heart beating.

“Patriot,” Enjolras panted.

Grantaire blinked. “What?”

Enjolras hesitantly nudged his foot towards the brown cat. “Um. Patriot would be a good name. That white cross against his chest looks like those shoulder belts soldiers would wear during the American Revolution.”

Grantaire’s mind was struggling to catch up. “Oh, right. That’s good. I like that.”

“You do?” Enjolras gave him an uncertain glance.

Grantaire nodded quickly. “I love it. It’s wonderful and creative, and I’m a sucker for historical references.”

Suddenly from downstairs, a man’s voice boomed. Grantaire couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he could tell that Fantine was the one replying to him. Grantaire and Enjolras exchanged a look.

“Do you think there’s a new guest?” Enjolras asked.

“What are the chances there would be another new guest? I can’t imagine Eastover gets too many visitors.”

Fantine and the man’s voices got louder as they went upstairs and down the hall. From beyond the wall towards Grantaire’s left, he could begin to make out distinct conversation.

“—a lovely home, really.” That was the man.

“Thank you, sir. But it isn’t mine. I just help run it.” That was Fantine.

Then, just as fast as the voices had become clear, they fazed out again until they were just ghosts hidden beneath centuries worth of wallpaper.

“He must be a guest,” Grantaire whispered. “He was telling her how nice the house is.”

Enjolras nodded, already looking more composed than Grantaire felt. “We should keep the cats in here for now, but go back downstairs in the meantime. We’ll have to go down there eventually. I’m starving for dinner.”

The events of the day caught up to Grantaire like an avalanche, and he remembered just how hungry and thirsty he was. Dinner sounded like a million dollar idea.

“Well then,” Grantaire decided. “Let’s leave Patriot in charge of our little troopers until we return.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out my tumblr enjolryas to send me stuff/questions/anything! update will be coming soon. definitely within the next five days.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> find out who the mysterious guest is! (there also may or may not be bed-sharing...)

As it turned out, dinner was the worst idea in the history of ideas. A solid negative million dollar idea. Maybe even worse than invading Russia in the winter.

That was because as soon as Grantaire and Enjolras turned the corner into the dining room, they were greeted with the mysterious guest sitting at the table. Grantaire immediately recognized him—the officer from the news, Sheriff Javert.

He also immediately spun around and shoved Enjolras back around the corner.

“What the hell?” Enjolras hissed.

They were standing chest to chest in the narrow hallway, but Grantaire wasn’t paying attention to that at this point. (Okay, maybe a _little_ attention, but if you were pressed up against the world’s most amazing human being too, you would probably be a bit distracted as well.)

“That’s the sheriff from the news, the one tracking us.”

Enjolras’s eyes widened. “Javert?”

“That’s the one.”

Enjolras clasped Grantaire’s shoulders and pulled him towards the staircase. “We have to go _now_. If he’s found us, it might already be too late, but I bet we could sneak out the window of our room. We could use the sheets as rope and climb down, and once we’re to the ground, we can—”

“Boys!” Fantine chirped, swinging open a double acting door and stepping out into the hallway with a casserole dish in her hands. “I was just about to call you down for dinner, but it seems you’re already here. Come meet our new guest!”

She looked at them expectantly, and Grantaire was sure they were looking back at her like a couple of deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming train.

Grantaire gulped. “I don’t think that’s the best idea.”

“Oh, why’s that?”

“Grantaire is actually feeling quite sick, ma’am,” Enjolras supplied. He dug his hand into Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire got the point very clearly. 

“Yep,” he confirmed. “I sure am.”

For good measure, he coughed.

“You poor thing. I have medicine in the kitchen. Come with me.” Fantine shooed them into the room she’d just emerged from.

Grantaire shot Enjolras a silent look that he hoped conveyed the fact that he hated the taste of medicine, and Enjolras simply shrugged. Grantaire couldn’t ignore the fact that Enjolras’s hand was still on his shoulder, but the touch was light—more concerning and protective, like friends (or third cousins) might be if the other was sick.

After Grantaire gave Fantine a run-down on what his _definitely_ real symptoms were, Fantine poured him a spoonful of children’s ibuprofen and made Grantaire retch it down. Cherry-flavored, but much more bitter. Armies of poison danced on his tongue.

“You can’t have that on an empty stomach, dear, so come have dinner with us, won’t you?” Fantine asked, placing the bottle of medicine back into the cabinet where she got it from.

“I can’t,” Grantaire choked out. He really wasn’t trying to feign coughing at this point; the cherry flavor was corroding the back of his throat. “I’m way too sick. Can’t we just bring some food up to the room? We promise not to spill anything.”

From behind Fantine, Enjolras gave Grantaire an encouraging nod and thumbs-up.

“No eating anywhere except for the dining room. Those are the rules. Sorry, boys.” Fantine gave Grantaire a sympathetic smile, and Enjolras deflated. “Besides, you’ve still got to meet our new guest. Two’s a bore, but _four’s_ a party. Let’s go.”

She laughed at her own joke, and Enjolras and Grantaire let out a burst of nervous laughter in return.

They had to get out of here.

Fantine placed a gentle hand on Grantaire’s back and ushered Grantaire out into the hall, all while Enjolras spouted protests about how this new guest could get sick, how Grantaire was tired enough as it was, how they needed to be in tip-top health if they wanted to help rebuild the family farmhouse, and letting Grantaire sleep would be best.

Fantine ignored all of these points because she wasn’t an idiot. She could probably see right through their ragged, sweat-stained looks and understand that regardless of whatever they’d been up to when they arrived at her doorstep, they were exhausted and starving and dehydrated. Grantaire was a bit lightheaded as it was, but the thought of not getting to eat anything for the rest of the night made his dizziness grow exponentially.

Fantine, as he was growing to learn, knew best.

He couldn’t understand why Enjolras didn’t just leave. It wasn’t like he was being held back by Grantaire’s presence here. It would be a simple story: Grantaire was dropped off by Enjolras in Eastover so the cat heist could continue. Grantaire _wanted_ Enjolras to get away. He didn’t know what he would do if Enjolras’s plan went down the drain or—worse—if Enjolras was arrested.

As all three of them went around the dining room corner, the sheriff came into full view. He had the same authoritative look that he’d had on the TV screen but it was so much more lifelike in person. Grantaire’s body seized up, and the only thing keeping him moving forward and into a seat was Fantine’s hand on his back.

Javert made no move to get up. That only concerned Grantaire more.

A few seconds later, Enjolras settled himself next to Grantaire, and Fantine next to Javert, right across from them.

“Boys, this is Sheriff Javert,” Fantine began. “He just arrived from Florida while you two were upstairs.”

Javert stuck his hand out, and Grantaire and Enjolras glanced at one another before each taking it. This couldn’t be happening.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sheriff,” Enjolras said. His voice was even. Grantaire decided to forgo any type of greeting because he wasn’t sure whether or not his own voice would stay steady.

Fantine passed around a glass pitcher of water. “This is Enjolras and R, both cousins. They just showed up right on my doorstep—”

“Because we’ve always wanted to visit Eastover, and now was the perfect time,” Enjolras quickly filled in. “We usually aren’t on the east coast, considering we’re from Kansas and all.”

Fantine clicked her tongue. “Please don’t interrupt me next time, dear.”

Enjolras lower his head. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”

Grantaire realized exactly what Enjolras was doing. If Javert, for whatever reason, _didn’t_ know who they were, he wouldn’t have reason to become suspicious now. The media didn’t know who the actual cat thief was—all they knew is that they were from Florida. If Enjolras made it very clear that they _were_ from Kansas by reaffirming the lie already told, it could only serve them good.

Javert gave them a closed-mouth smile. “Enjolras, R. Wonderful to make your acquaintance.”

After passing plates and dishes around, Grantaire began to eat in earnest, very aware of Javert’s eyes on the both of them. But still, the sheriff made no move to do anything of consequence.

Meanwhile, Fantine and Javert filled the room with pleasant chatter until Grantaire and Enjolras were both on their second helping, and that was when Javert turned the conversation onto them.

“So, what are you two doing in Eastover _exactly_?”

Enjolras brushed his lips with his napkin before answering. “We’re traveling to back Kansas. Back home. What about you?”

It was good to keep Javert talking about himself. They had less of a chance of slipping up that way.

“I’m on a case. Have any of you heard of the Fort Myers Cat Theft?” Javert asked. He looked genuinely curious, not at all pegging. Maybe he really didn’t know who they were.

Fantine hummed in thought. “No. What happened?”

Javert regaled some tragic story of breaking the law and animal cruelty—not on the part of the shelter, but on that of the mysterious thief. He then went on to talk about a potential missing person and a stolen car, which was now a burnt hull on the side of the road not too far from here. Fantine bit her lip in concern.

Grantaire could hear Enjolras huffing to himself one or two times, and each time, Grantaire would nudge Enjolras’s shoe with his own. Enjolras would return the sentiment by knocking his knee against Grantaire’s. He couldn’t tell if that was meant as a Thanks-for-Checking-My-Anger touch or a If-You-Do-That-One-More-Time-I’m-Putting-These-Mashed-Potatoes-In-Your-Hair-While-You-Sleep touch, but their knees were _touching_ so he didn’t care much. He only wished it didn’t remind him of that terribly awkward time in the bathroom earlier.

When Javert was done with his deliverance, Grantaire sat back with a faux-stunned look on his face. “That was certainly a thrilling tale, Sheriff.”

“You know, it’s actually sort of funny,” Javert said, finishing a bite of green beans. “Your hair is fairly similar to that of our potential missing person. I haven’t seen any real photos of the young man and the video footage recovered from the bar is a bit hazy, but there is a striking resemblance.” Javert leaned forward across the table to get a closer look.

“I get that a lot.” Grantaire ran a nervous hand over his curls. But then he realized that it might look suspicious, so then he ran his fingers through again as if intentionally styling his hair. Like a goddamned model. “My last girlfriend said I looked like that guy from that action movie. You know the one that came out last year?”

“I loved that one,” Enjolras piped in. “The cinematography was great.”

“And the main actor? He sure could shoot a gun.”

Enjolras nodded quickly. “The effects were great. I love things that blow up.”

“The soundtrack was legendary.”

“What movie are you talking about?” Javert asked.

“You haven’t seen it?” Grantaire let out a breath. “Man, that’s a shame. They probably have it on DVD by now. You seem like the type of guy who buys DVDs.”

Javert smiled to himself. “I actually have the complete collection of _Cheers_ at home.”

“I would have taken you for more of the _Law and Order_ type, Sheriff.” Enjolras had a pleasant grin painted across his face.

Javert sighed and shook his head. “It’s not realistic whatsoever. Do you know how many young interns start working at the station as if they know everything about police work and the law already? Well, they don’t. The only reason they get involved in the job in the first place is because of Hollywood magic. What are you two boys majoring in? Interested in law?”

“I’m a political science major, and I’m going to start law school when I’m done with undergrad.” Enjolras took a stiff bite of casserole. “But I’m willing to bet our passions don’t line up, even with similar interests.”

“And what are you passionate about?”

“Justice.”

“I am too, young man.”

“Are you _sure_ about that?”

Grantaire cut in before the conversation could escalate. “I, for one, dropped out of art school. That’s pretty neat. Not many people get to say that.”

Enjolras and Javert were still frowning at each other.

“But I still dabble in doodling, if you catch my drift. My dream job is to become a tattoo artist. Got any cool tattoos, Sheriff?”

That snapped Javert from the stare-off. “Definitely not.”

“Maybe I could practice on you. Maybe a big _I Am The Law_ tattoo right across your forehead.” Grantaire chuckled, but it came out rigid. “You can strike fear into the hearts of criminals everywhere.”

Now, unfortunate as it was, Javert was inspecting Grantaire up and down. “An art student, you said?”

“ . . . Ex-art student, yes.”

Javert placed both hands on the table and clasped them together. “The missing man from Florida left art school as well.”

Grantaire’s heart shuttered behind his ribs. “Well, I’m clearly not missing. I’m right here, and I’m not even from Florida. We’re both from Kansas.”

“Can I see your license?” Javert asked.

Grantaire was frozen to his seat. He knew. God, he knew. The cats were upstairs; the evidence was everywhere. They were going to get caught fur-handed, and it was all Grantaire’s fault.

Thank God Enjolras stepped in.

“He’s not legally required to show you any ID. In the state of North Carolina, there exists no Stop-and-Identify statute, and as such, he is under no legal obligation to comply. I would understand your confusion since you, a native Floridian, are from a state where this statute exists, but North Carolina is a green zone.”

Javert narrowed his eyes at Enjolras. “If he refuses to show me any identification, I’m forced view his actions with suspicion. Both of your actions, in fact.”

Fantine cleared her throat. “Is this really appropriate for the dinner table?”

“But do you have _reasonable_ suspicion?” Enjolras asked.

Although he was still sitting, Enjolras seemed much more formidable than usual. Grantaire wasn’t sure if he was doing it voluntarily or if it was just a reflex.

“As far as I’m aware,” Enjolras continued, “the only evidence to support your ludicrous claim of criminal activity is that my cousin is a failed art student with curly hair. I can point you in the direction of the nearest college, and I can guarantee that you can find a hundred other students just like him. Is that reasonable suspicion? Or is that just paranoia?”

Grantaire stepped on Enjolras’s foot and Enjolras winced. “Sheriff, I apologize for my cousin’s impolite words. He doesn’t mean anything by it. Just his big ego, you know? All that law student power is getting to his head. Besides, we’ve been traveling all day, and we’re both extremely tired. It would be best if we retired to our room. Miss Fantine, the meal was absolutely delicious, but could we be excused?”

Fantine looked between all three of them as if expecting a bomb to go off. “I . . . was just about to bring out the cherry pie I made.”

The taste of cherry medicine—the same taste Grantaire had finally managed to flush down his throat with forkfuls of casserole—suddenly resurfaced. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“That sounds wonderful, actually,” said Enjolras.

What the hell? Didn’t he want to get out of this situation?

“R can help you with the pie, ma’am.” Enjolras knocked Grantaire’s knee again.

What the _hell_.

Grantaire got up anyway and followed Fantine into the kitchen to help her collect dessert silverware and cut the pie into eight pieces, and by the time they got back, both Enjolras and Javert were standing across from one another at the table, both leaning slightly forward like they were about to pounce. Grantaire immediately dropped the silverware onto the table and rushed to Enjolras’s side. He placed a hand across his chest to hold him back from whatever he was about to do.

“Your guest Enjolras here,” Javert cried, “was just defending the actions of the Fort Myers Cat Thief!”

“Because if there’s any injustice in this situation, it’s murdering a bunch of cats!” Enjolras yelled back.

“They’re _cats_.”

“ _Exactly_!”

“Boys,” Fantine chided. “I understand that there’s a disagreement, but that’s no reason to—”

“The law must always be obeyed,” Javert interrupted.

Fantine slammed the pie onto the table. “I already warned all of you to never cut off my sentences. That’ll get you kicked right out, I swear. Everyone, go to your rooms.”

They all stared at her, and Grantaire wondered if she was being serious. Was she really sending them to their rooms like a bunch of children?

His question was answered when Fantine raised her arm and pointed towards the stairs.

 

x x x

 

Up in their room, Enjolras threw himself onto the bed. “This is ridiculous.”

“You could have spoiled everything. What were you thinking?”

Enjolras snapped his head up from where it had been buried in the floral comforter, his hair flying around him like it was underwater. “I was thinking that somebody has to set this guy straight, and if I don’t, who will?”

“He was just doing his job, Enjolras.”

“Going across state lines is excessive. If he cares so much about justice, then he should act like it.”

Enjolras pushed himself off the bed and swung open the bathroom door, releasing a floodgate of fur onto the pinewood floor. Patriot was fittingly in the lead, with Hamlet and Toffee quite literally on his tail. Cleopatra trotted along behind like she had all the time in the world.

“I’m taking a shower,” Enjolras announced. “Make sure the cats don’t die or anything.”

Grantaire didn’t have time to reply before the bathroom door was slammed shut.

 

x x x

 

By the time Enjolras was done showering and Grantaire had taken his turn, it was already dark outside. Which meant it was time to go to bed.

In one bed.

After Enjolras’s argument with Javert, and Grantaire doing his best to _not_ imagine wet, naked Enjolras in the next room over, Grantaire had completely forgotten about their predicament. But it was abundantly clear that he couldn’t avoid it any longer when Enjolras declared that Grantaire could take the bed while he slept on the floor.

“No way,” Grantaire protested. “This was your plan, and you deserve the bed. I’m just your sad excuse for a sidekick.”

Enjolras’s face fell a bit, but the cold facade that he’d put on since dinner was still very much present. “You were the last one to drive, which means you haven’t slept in the longest amount of time. You get the bed.”

Grantaire threw his hands in the air. “I don’t want to argue about this.”

“You always want to argue.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“If anyone is arguing right now, it’s you, Enjolras.”

“Just take the bed.”

“I’m refusing to sleep in that bed if it means you’re sleeping on the floor.”

Enjolras crossed his arms. “Then we can both sleep in the bed.”

Grantaire opened his mouth to make another rebuttal, but no words came out. He couldn’t believe Enjolras just said that.

“I’m taking the left side.” Enjolras pulled back the covers and slipped under them. Toffee jumped up after him and curled up at his side.

Grantaire had no idea where to look. This was officially the most embarrassing thing ever.

“I’m still wearing my dirty clothes and I don’t want to ruin Fantine’s sheets.” Grantaire praised himself for his fast thinking; now he had a viable case. After showering, Enjolras had simply thrown on some of his packed clothes to use as pajamas, but Grantaire had been forced to re-wear his dirty clothes. He normally just slept in boxers, but that was _not_ about to happen. So, dirty clothes it was.

“Take some of my stuff, then,” Enjolras suggested.

“I’m bulkier than you, and you’re taller. They won’t fit right.”

“Who cares? You’re just sleeping. It’s not like you’ll be out on the town.”

Grantaire cheeks burned. Arguing with Enjolras was like arguing with a brick wall.

“Fine,” Grantaire said.

He leaned down and started shuffling through the first duffle bag, trying to find a t-shirt that wouldn’t be too embarrassingly small on him, and when he found one, he turned his back to change. The t-shirt had a Georgetown logo etched across its soft fabric, and when Grantaire took off his own gritty shirt and replaced it with the fresh one, the warmth of the cloth reminded him of just how exhausted he was.

When he was done changing as fast as possible—eventually just resorting to wearing his boxers with the t-shirt _because sleeping in jeans would be gross_ —Grantaire turned back around to find Enjolras with his mouth hung open.

“Uh . . . you okay?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras blinked himself back into reality and promptly shut his mouth. There was an audible _click_. “Yeah. I’m good. It’s just, um . . . that’s one of my favorite t-shirts.”

Grantaire looked down at himself and touched the taut material. “I had no idea. I can change if you want. You probably don’t want me stretching it out.”

“No, no, no.” Enjolras waved his hands back and forth in front of him. “It’s good.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Definitely.”

They stared at each other for a few more seconds.

“So . . .” Enjolras started. He pointed gracelessly towards the spot next to him. “Ready for bed?”

Grantaire put on a fake grin and sent a couple of finger guns Enjolras’s way. “Born ready.”

He padded across the room towards the right side of the bed, and Enjolras lifted the covers up for him (which was awfully nice but also awfully personal), and once Grantaire was under the thick comforter, he settled down on the far side of the bed, hoping to put as much space between them as physically possible.

Enjolras leaned over and shut the bedside lamp off. It wasn’t too dark in the room; the curtains were sheer and allowed moonbeams to filter through in gusts of milky light. Grantaire balled the scratchy sheets up in his clammy fists. His chest barely rose—he’d be damned if he _breathed_ , of all things. He felt like if he moved, it would disturb some unspoken rule between the two of them and the world would come crashing down on top of them.

After a while, Hamlet hopped up onto Grantaire’s stomach, and he busied himself by running his hand over Hamlet’s soft fur to lull himself to sleep.

It was fruitless. An hour later, Grantaire’s lids were heavy and his limbs had practically melted into the mattress, but his heart was still beating too violently to possibly sleep even with the amount of walking and (likely) heat stroke he’d suffered from today. His sleep schedule had always been a mess. This was nothing new.

“You still awake?” Enjolras whispered next to him.

Grantaire jumped and looked over to notice the outline of Enjolras’s golden head peeking up over the covers, eyes fixed upon him. Grantaire had guessed Enjolras must have dozed off long ago, but now he was mostly wondering how long Enjolras had been watching him.

“Yeah,” Grantaire replied. “Having trouble sleeping too?”

Enjolras let out a breath. “It’s sort of difficult to let my guard down with Javert under the same roof. Who knows what information the police department will send him during the night? You could be reported ‘missing’ for all we know. Your twenty-four hours is almost up.” He paused a moment. “Was that just twenty-four hours ago? It feels like forever.”

In the dark, Enjolras’s voice seemed small, not the force of nature it usually was. Small, like a child confessing that they really _did_ say that bad word and who is for the first time doubting their actions. Grantaire’s fingers itched to reach out and hold Enjolras’s hand.

“It’ll be okay,” Grantaire said. He restrained the urge. “We can still always sneak out if we need to.”

“But we don’t have another ride.”

“I’m sure there are some abandoned cars in town.”

Enjolras was silent for a few beats. “Are you actually reassuring me?”

“ . . . Am I not allowed to do that?”

Enjolras turned onto his side to face Grantaire, and the mattress dipped underneath his weight. “Of course, but I . . . never thought you cared enough.”

Grantaire turned as well, so their curled bodies formed a circle. Hamlet meowed at the sudden change of position and leaped off the bed. Toffee’s head peeked up from behind Enjolras’s back.

The space in between them had lessened a considerable amount without Grantaire realizing. Even with a good foot separating them, Grantaire could feel Enjolras’s faint breaths on his cheek. He looked so untroubled in the dusk light.

“I’ve always cared, Enjolras.”

Enjolras’s eyes widened a millimeter. “Oh.”

“Do you—?” Grantaire’s lips parted. “Do you genuinely think I don’t care?”

“Well . . .” Enjolras’s voice trailed off for a moment like he was contemplating saying something or not. “You come off like you don’t care about anything. Especially concerning me. I guess that sounds sort of horrible, but you have to admit you don’t exactly wear your support on your sleeve. Can I ask you a question?”

Grantaire’s body felt paralyzed. Enjolras _knew_ Grantaire liked him. He must.

The only thing Grantaire could do was nod silently.

“Why are you here?” Enjolras asked.

The tension in Grantaire’s chest eased a little. Enjolras might know, but he at least he was polite enough not to say it right to Grantaire's face. 

But now Grantaire had to answer the question. He didn’t even know the answer himself—well, he did. But he didn’t want to say it out loud.

It was Enjolras, though. If Grantaire was going to confess anything, it would be to him.

“If I’m being honest,” Grantaire started, “I hated my life in St. Petersburg. I wanted to get away. Every day, it was just the same dull routine over and over again, and my existence was turning out to be . . . I don’t know. A bargain. Like, you try to get out of it. You really do, and you start off so strong and so full of hope and you _try_ , but no matter what you push yourself to do, the world pushes back, and you’re stuck in an endless loop of people stepping on top of you. It’s like a contract. You can’t get out of it.” Grantaire sighed, burrowing part of his face into the comforter. “Then you came along, Enjolras, and I just . . . I held witness to unabashed hope again. Thank you.”

When Grantaire looked back up, Enjolras was staring at him. He reached out and wrapped his arm around Grantaire’s torso, pulling him closer until their chests were pressed flush together. Only two layers of thinly worn cloth separated their skin; Grantaire was sure his heart was already beating through the fabric, tearing it to shreds, tapping _What is happening?_ in Morse code against Enjolras’s chest. Tapping _I love you_. Enjolras tucked his head into Grantaire, and Grantaire could feel the fluttering of Enjolras’s breath on the delicate skin of his neck.

Suddenly, Enjolras released him and leaned away.

“Sorry,” he rushed. His eyes were panicked.

Grantaire lay there in shock. “I—no. Don’t apologize.”

“It’s just—you seemed like you needed a hug. I hope that’s okay. I didn’t ask first, and that was shitty.”

“It definitely wasn’t shitty.”

Enjolras shook his head and sat up, the covers falling into his lap. “No, it was shitty.”

“It really wasn’t. If anything, _I_ should be the one apologizing to _you_. I just spilled a lifetime’s worth of repressed emotional garbage on you.”

Enjolras criss-crossed his legs and spread his hands in a shrugging gesture, tossing an embarrassed smile back towards Grantaire. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

So that’s how Enjolras felt. Grantaire knew this, obviously. There was no way a guy like Enjolras would ever like Grantaire back. It was best that Grantaire got those delusional ideas out of his head. Friends hugged each other. That was _normal_. He needed to treat it that way.

Grantaire leaned back and settled his head against his pillow. “Friends. I like that.”

It was the most he could ask for.

Tucking a stray curl behind his ear, Enjolras shifted until both of his knees were tucked under his chin. “Yeah. Friends.”

“Are you _. . ._ good?”

“I’m great. It’s just—um.” Enjolras sighed. “It’s just that I’m stressed about the whole cat fiasco.”

“Tell me your troubles, friend of mine.”

Enjolras gave him an amused look. “It’s kind of a long story.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Enjolras laid back down again. Toffee crawled onto his stomach. Honestly, Grantaire had almost forgotten that she’d been next to him this entire time. He hoped Patriot, Cleopatra, and Hamlet were getting along alright, where ever they were in the room.

Enjolras started telling the series of events that led up to the part that involved him steal the four cats. He’d been down in Fort Myers for summer vacation because his parents owned a beach house there. During his stay, his mother had found a stray dog wandering around on the beach and had promptly taken it to an animal shelter—one that apparently euthanized its unwanted animals. When Enjolras heard this he, quote, “freaked out” and drove over there to see if he could transfer the dog over to the Humane Society instead, but the dog had already been adopted by someone else. Which was good. But then he saw the cats, and then he saw the list on the front desk that held the names of the animals about to be put down, and then he made a very important decision to steal said cats. This was on Friday, just two days ago.

Later that night, Enjolras put together a scheme that put _Mission: Impossible_ to shame. He snuck out of the house before the sun rose, broke into the shelter, took the four cats from their cages, looked up a Youtube video on how to erase camera footage, erased the camera footage, drove _back_ to his house, packed up his things (at this point, Grantaire asked why Enjolras didn’t just pack up his things before hand. Enjolras ignored the question), walked to the nearest 7/11, bought some cat food and litter, looked up yet another Youtube video on how to break into and hotwire a car, broke into and hotwired a car, and then drove along back routes to St. Petersburg where he heard on the radio that the police were tracking the car he was in. He stopped at the West Flamingo Bar, and the rest was history.

Joly—the veterinary assistant, Grantaire remembered—had been involved from the start. Enjolras didn’t want to accidentally kill the cats in the process of transporting them, so Joly gave him a bunch of advice. Enjolras made him promise that he would not, under any circumstances, tell anyone about the situation until Enjolras arrived in DC the next day. Well, “the next day” was _today_ , and Enjolras was obviously not in DC. But it didn’t matter because now Enjolras’s friends Combeferre and Courfeyrac knew, and they were sure to have told everyone by now. Or, at least, that was what Enjolras guessed. They had a tightly knit group of friends, and information got around quickly. Especially if Courfeyrac was involved.

“He’s a gossip hound,” Enjolras informed Grantaire. “But we love him anyway.”

Grantaire laughed at that. He liked hearing about Enjolras’s life.

“And I would tell you the rest of the story, but you already know it. Hopefully the whole thing isn't too outrageous for you. I thought Combeferre was going to have a heart attack on the other line."

Grantaire sat up on one arm. The man lying next to him was a hero. An absolute legend. Grantaire was struck with a lightning bolt of pride that buried itself deep into his chest. “I’m in love with your spunk.”

Okay. So that was probably dumb as hell to say, but it was true. If Enjolras could confess all that, Grantaire could state a simple fact.

Enjolras glanced over, a warm smile ghosting across his lips. “You’re charming.”

“Wow, alright. Those sure are equal compliments.”

“No, I mean, you’re _actually_ charming. Not just because you complimented my so-called spunk, but because a solid ninety-two percent of the time I’m charmed by you.”

Grantaire blinked. “Ninety-two percent of the time?”

“Well,” Enjolras said, “we _did_ get into an argument after dinner about Javert’s moral compass, so sometimes you’re a little less than agreeable. But if I’m being honest, you do bring up some good points. I sometimes get so wrapped up in my own head that I can’t see things from others’ perspectives. You give me a reality check. You keep both my feet on the ground.”

Grantaire’s chest buzzed. “I didn’t know I made you feel that way.”

“You make me feel a lot of things, Grantaire.”

They’re stared at each other for a moment, a question hanging in the air.

But then Enjolras curled away on his side. His shirt twisted against the covers and a sliver of skin peaked through, revealing the tan skin of his back.

“Goodnight, Grantaire.”

Grantaire’s mind didn’t have time to process anything that just happened before Enjolras’s breathing evened out into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out my tumblr enjolryas!
> 
> since this was a longer chapter than usual and most of this fic was pre-written, know that it's going to take me a little while longer to get the next chapter up because I'm going to actively start writing now. but in the next chapter we meet les amis, so stay tuned! should be published in one week.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> meet some of les amis! 
> 
> (chapter warning: brief mention of transphobia)

In the morning when they trotted downstairs towards the smell of freshly made pancakes, Fantine greeted them with a renewed smile.

Apparently, Javert had left before the sun had even risen. “To get a headstart on the day,” Fantine told them as she cut Grantaire’s pancakes. They were delicious.

Enjolras just nodded silently at her report, but Grantaire could see the corners of his mouth peak up. Javert was gone from Eastover. He must have realized what a ridiculous claim he had been making. Sure, the claim was _correct_ , but he didn’t have to know that. He was welcome to go galavanting across the country looking for two cat stealing thieves if he wanted to.

Which was why they spent their sweet time eating their pancakes and chatting with Fantine. Grantaire had to restrain himself multiple times from lifting a napkin to Enjolras’s chin and wiping a drop of syrup away. (As a person, Grantaire was cringingly embarrassing.)

But so far (and somehow), things hadn’t been awkward between the two of them after that weird not-hug and not-confession last night. Grantaire had been the first to wake up and had discovered their warm limbs woven together, and he would be damned if all his careful untangling went to waste now. He’d managed to get out of bed by the time Enjolras awoke. When Grantaire turned around to see Enjolras—hair tousled and eyes sleepy—he decided it was the best thing he’d held witness to.

_You make me feel lots of things, Grantaire._

That moment and those words hadn’t stopped playing over and over in his head.

It didn’t help that he was now wearing another one of Enjolras’s t-shirts. This time, it was a blue Human Rights Campaign shirt. He was still wearing his own jeans, but the shirt smelled like Enjolras’s detergent (strawberry, wouldn’t you believe) and he wanted to bury his nose in the material.

He didn’t.

When breakfast was finished and the dishes washed, Grantaire and Enjolras headed upstairs to pack up their things. Patriot was less than polite while being put into a duffle bag, and Grantaire nearly got scratched to death before Enjolras took over for him. When the cats were settled, they went back downstairs.

Fantine packed them lunches for the trip. Enjolras asked her where to find the nearest gas station, and Grantaire mapped her verbal directions behind his eyelids as she spoke. He’d always been good with directions, and now it was finally coming in handy.

They left Solstice Bed and Breakfast with many waves and hugs. Arriving at a ratty old gas station after just ten minutes of walking, Enjolras took a pair of bobby pins out of his pocket—the same bobby pins he’s used to pick Grantaire’s lock—and got to work on a pickup truck that was hidden around back. Grantaire kept watch, scanning the road and the corners of the building, but no one came out to check on them. Sleepy Eastover was just as passive as Grantaire usually felt.

One _click_ and Enjolras was in.  

What was especially impressive, though, was Enjolras’s hotwiring skills. Laying his back against the floor of the truck, he carefully removed a plastic panel and got to work, stripping wires with a pair of scissors he had packed. Within five minutes, the car was up and running.

They’d only been able to find a pickup truck, so the cats were brought to the front seat while the bags themselves were left in the open bed of the truck. Driving next to four cats was a dangerous condition, but they didn’t have much of a choice.

Grantaire doubted that DC would be prepared for a group of the likes of _them_.

 

x x x

 

When they arrived in Richmond, Virginia—around hour three—Grantaire switched with Enjolras at the wheel. Patriot and Cleopatra settled down into Enjolras’s lap while Hamlet and Toffee curled up around his feet. The cats were getting more and more used to Enjolras and Grantaire’s presence. It broke Grantaire’s heart to know they’d eventually have to leave.

Since they were already so close to DC, Enjolras called a few of his friends to confirm travel and housing arrangements. From what Grantaire had overheard, they’d be staying with the two guys he’d called earlier, Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The three of them owned an apartment together right next to Georgetown’s campus.

Joly would meet everybody there to pick up the cats. He would take them to the vet he worked for and give them a check-up, then bring them back to the apartment. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac (and now, apparently, Grantaire) were in charge of watching over them until good homes could be found.

Somebody named Jehan had already volunteered to take one so they could achieve their, quote, “ideal level of aesthetic,” which was then followed by Enjolras telling Jehan that they would have to start coordinating their wardrobe if they wanted to achieve any sort of aesthetic in the first place. Enjolras was laughing, and the buzz coming from the phone’s speaker told Grantaire that Jehan was laughing as well.

Two hours later, Grantaire pulled onto the streets of DC and started weaving through traffic cones and roundabouts (who the  _fuck_ had the audacity to invent those?) with the help of the pleasant voice of Google Maps.

Enjolras was practically bouncing in his seat. “You’re going to love Combeferre and Courfeyrac.”

Grantaire put the left blinker on. He’d never seen Enjolras so excited about something before. Angry or impassioned, sure. But excited? Not so much.

“You think?” Grantaire asked.

“Oh, definitely. Combeferre is really into literature and you guys can talk about books for hours. Courfeyrac, on the other hand, is going to jump at the opportunity to get another party-companion. I’m assuming you’re into parties? I sort of just assumed that you were since I picked you up in a bar at three in the morning.”

Grantaire chuckled. “Yeah, I’m usually out on the town at night. But for all the nights I’m out, I also stay in. You’ll catch me reading or getting lost in a Youtube hole or something.”

“Fine taste.”

“Diversity in action is good; I can be entertained from lots of different sources. You probably just spend nights reading news articles or writing term papers on social justice.” Grantaire glanced over as a sheepish grin grew across Enjolras’s face. “You do! Oh my God, you _do_. I knew it. Well, I can tell you right now that we’ll get along fine as roommates, since we’re living together now. You can stay in when I go out, and when I _am_ in, we never have to speak.”

Enjolras was silent for a second. “You don’t enjoy our conversations?”

Grantaire wanted to look at him, but he was in the middle of yet another roundabout and didn’t want to accidentally kill anybody. “Of course I enjoy our conversations. I just figured you’d be in the zone saving the world and shit, and there isn’t room for me in that picture. Besides, I’ll be out of your hair once I get on my feet.”

They were only a few minutes away from the apartment now, and the city was drifting into more of a mixed-use area. It looked nice, but not in an extremely expensive way. In a students-manage-to-get-by-here-way, perhaps, but with the added perk of safety and parking.

“You don’t have to alienate yourself when you stop living with us. I mean—”

He faltered, his body leaning forward like he wanted to say something.

“I mean,” he recovered, “there’s no rush to leave. Our landlord rarely checks in on us, so you can stay as long as you want. It’s only a two-bedroom, but Courfeyrac and Combeferre share one, and I’m in the other one, but the couch . . . is good. It’s nice and clean and stuff. Yeah.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want to couch surf, especially if it puts a burden on you guys. I’ve been a burden pretty much my entire life, and this is supposed to be a fresh start, so.”

“No—God. Grantaire, it’s not a burden on anyone, _especially_ if it’s you. We’d love to have you.”

“They haven’t even met me yet.”

“Something tells me they’ll want you to stay.”

“Oh, yeah?” Grantaire asked. “And why’s that?”

“Just . . . they will. I promise. I’ll talk to them. I know they’ll love you anyway, but I have some leverage.”

“ . . . Leverage?”

“Not in a bad way. I just mean to say that they value my opinion just as I value theirs. So as long as you’re alright with me advocating for you, I will. But I don’t think you’ll need it. And if you’re still uncomfortable with the situation, I won’t make you stay any place you don’t want to stay. That being said, it’s your best option.”

Grantaire knew he was going to be a great lawyer.

Still, Grantaire couldn’t even consider of living with Enjolras long-term. Under the same roof. Both of them puttering around in the kitchen every morning, learning each other’s coffee preferences, taking turns doing the dishes. Their hands brushing against one another under a pool of suds. Their eyes locking. Leaning in and—

That was absurd. That would be a disaster, and Grantaire knew it. Who the hell still washed dishes in the sink anyway?

But there was always something else. _You make me feel lots of things._

Was that an invitation? Did that explain why Enjolras was so insistent upon Grantaire living in the apartment? Was Grantaire willing to risk everything on a slight chance? A slight yes? A possible no?

Grantaire only knew one thing. He was a coward, and he always would be.

“I’ll stay with you until I have my bearings and a new place to live, and then I’m gone.” The words had a terrifying ring of finality to them.

Grantaire was afraid Enjolras was going to say something again when the phone’s voice announced, “Arrived.”

Grantaire pulled the car to the curb and shut it off by disconnecting the wires at his feet. He immediately slipped out the door and onto the sidewalk. He had to be away from Enjolras. The warm air was harsh on his skin, but it felt so much better than the thick conditions of the car’s interior.

He heard the passenger open and shut, and Enjolras was beside him in an instant. “Grantaire, if—”

“ENJOLRAS!” shouted a voice.

Grantaire looked down the sidewalk. Two guys were running towards them, one of them waving both arms in the air, the other just plain running. Enjolras waved back.

The two guys ran full speed ahead into Enjolras. The trio would have tipped completely over if it weren’t for Enjolras’s protest that he was holding a _cat_ , for God’s sake. The other two removed themselves from the embrace.

“It’s so great to see you,” Enjolras said, adjusting his grip on Patriot. Grantaire had never been able to hold Patriot; Enjolras just impressed him more and more by the second.

One of the guys ran his fingers through his dark curls. They were way more styled and neater than Grantaire’s, and to make the comparison worse, this guy’s floral button-up was tucked into the front of his pants like some professional model.

“We’ve been dying without you,” Button-Up Guy said. “Combeferre’s taken over the TV again. He won’t let me watch anything but _X-Files_.”

The other guy—who must have been Combeferre, which made the first guy Courfeyrac—chuckled and touched Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “I’m gone half the day. You can watch _New Girl_ then.”

“But I’m gone half the day, too. Look at the mess we’re in.” Even still, both Courfeyrac and Combeferre both smiling.

Enjolras laughed. “You really shouldn’t be coming to me for help. You know how I was last year with—”

“ _Parks and Rec_.” All three of them said it at once. Enjolras proud, Courfeyrac mock-groaning, Combeferre smiling.

It was so weird seeing Enjolras in his own sphere. Grantaire liked seeing Enjolras more at ease.

Then, Courfeyrac turned on his heel and looked Grantaire down. “ _You_ must be Grantaire.”

“That’s me,” he answered.

Without a second to blink, Courfeyrac tackled him in a hug.

“I’ve wanted to meet you so badly!” he cried, squeezing Grantaire’s insides to mush. Grantaire had only ever been hugged like this by Eponine, but her hugs were few and far between. Enjolras’s hug last night didn’t count. That had been more of a pity hug.

Grantaire realized in a rush that Eponine must think he’d actually been kidnapped. _Shit_. He couldn’t care less about informing Montparnasse of his safety, but _Eponine_ . . .

“I’m Courfeyrac, by the way.” He released Grantaire with a flourish of limbs.

Grantaire rubbed the back of his neck. “And I’m guessing this is Combeferre?”

The other guy nodded, confirming Grantaire’s hypothesis. He wore more reserved clothing than Courfeyrac, instead opting for a smart sweater despite the summer heat. The two guys complimented each other.

When Combeferre went to shake Grantaire’s hand, Grantaire had a flashback to a time in middle school when he’d tried shaking hands with another student. Not too many kids shook other kids’ hands, but Combeferre pulled it off with comfortable ease. Probably because they weren’t in fucking middle school anymore, but Grantaire was still impressed.

“It’s really great to have you here, Grantaire,” he said. “We can help carry up the bags and . . . _other_ goods. You and Enjolras can just head on upstairs now. A little birdy told me you’ve had a pretty rough go of it so far.”

Grantaire laughed. “You could say that.”

Combeferre turned his attention to Enjolras. “When everybody’s upstairs, I’m having words with you.”

Enjolras gave a stiff smile. “I was assuming so.”

With another jumble of hugs from Courfeyrac and a wave from Combeferre, Enjolras and Grantaire entered the apartment building and made their way up three flights of stairs to reach the flat.

It was clean and open, the windows yawning onto the street below. It seemed basic enough for student quarters, but compared to Grantaire’s own apartment back in St. Petersburg, this was heavenly. The floor was unstained, the windows had curtains, the open kitchenette in the back corner was spotless and organized. The living room only had a couch and a couple of chairs, but it was more than Grantaire could ever ask for. He could get used to this.

But he wouldn’t. He absolutely would not get used to this.

“So,” Enjolras began, sweeping his hand out across the room after plopping Patriot on the floor. The cat looked around, unsure of his new surroundings, but then headed off to investigate the couch. “This is our apartment.”

Grantaire hummed in approval. “Am I privileged enough to receive a grand tour?”

“There isn’t much to see.”

“Well, I spot three closed doors, so my curiosity is bubbling. Unless there are crazy sex dungeons behind them. Then I’ll pass.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Do we seem like people who have not one, but _three_ crazy sex dungeons?”

Grantaire shrugged. “You did try and mug me in a bar parking lot. You clearly have a knack for pinning people down.”

Enjolras’s cheeks flushed a deep red as he made his way across the living room and opened the first door. “This is the bathroom. We all use it.”

Grantaire followed and peaked inside. It was still tiny, but it beat his own bathroom by a longshot. There was even one of those fancy toothbrush holders. Grantaire and Eponine shared a plastic Corona Extra cup to hold theirs. (Montparnasse kept his in a separate one because that was the sort of pretentious asshole he was.)

“This is nice,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras moved onto the next room. Within it was a neatly made bed and a couple of bookshelves, all filled to the brim and spilling with books. The closet doors were open to reveal some formal wear, but most of it was fun and cozy. “Combeferre’s and Courfeyrac’s.”

Grantaire nodded his head towards the last door. “And what, dare I ask, is behind door number three?”

The blush on Enjolras’s face worsened. “That’s just my room.”

“Are you going to be a lousy host and not let me see it?”

“Of course I will.” He squared his shoulders and walked over, swinging the door open.

Grantaire followed and stepped inside.

Of all the things he was expecting, this wasn’t it. Enjolras’s room was an absolute mess. Not in a usual sort of messy-room way, but in a weird chaotic-organization hybrid.

Sheets of paper were pinned to the wall—news reports, reminders, handmade protest signs. A few pictures of him and his friends were littered here and there, mostly above the headboard of the bed. Next to the bed was a desk, which Grantaire could only tell was a desk because of the four table legs. Other than that, it was completely unrecognizable. Even more papers were strewn across its surface, and Grantaire was pretty sure if he picked a page up, everything would collapse like the Leaning Tower of Pisa on a very windy day.

“Wow.” Grantaire let out a low whistle. “This is very . . . you.”

Enjolras looked around. “Is that . . . a good thing?”

“It is. And, um, is that—oh, man.” He couldn’t believe it. “Is that a baby Enjolras I see?”

“Huh?”

Grantaire was already making his way across the room towards the headboard, where dozens of pictures were tacked above. “Oh, it is!”

Next to a photobooth clipping of Enjolras and some friend with long red hair was a photograph of a baby. _11/23/98_ was written in a yellow electronic font in the corner of the image, and the text partially blocked out a platter of chocolate cake. The baby’s grinning face was covered in frosting and it’s little chubby hands gripped a child’s fork. If Grantaire was right, the fork was in the shape of a giraffe.

Grantaire began to giggle. “This is the cutest shit I’ve ever seen.”

Next to him, Enjolras buried his face in his hands. “I forgot I had that up there.”

“What? How could you forget this masterpiece? Look at your cute little cheeks! They’re so round and happy.”

“My parents took that on my first birthday.”

Baby Enjolras was one of the cutest things he’d ever seen, except here was _actual_ Enjolras standing next to him, so the winner of the Cutest Thing Award was already claimed.

Grantaire contemplated taking the image and shoving it into his pocket.

Well, not _really_. But sometimes people get urges to do weird things that they would never actually do and, well, this was one of those times. (It was also one of those times when Grantaire was reminded of the fact that his crush was getting very, very out of hand.)

Just then, Courfeyrac burst into the room.

“I see you two are getting well acquainted with the bed.”

Grantaire swiveled his head first to notice Courfeyrac’s waggling eyebrows and second to notice that he and Enjolras were both leaned heavily over the bed to get a better look at the photograph.

Enjolras immediately straightened and stepped away. “Are the cats and the bags inside?”

“Yup. But we had a little trouble with the brown one you first brought up when we opened the apartment door. That one doesn’t like to be contained, apparently.”

Grantaire tried to ignore Courfeyrac’s previous comment about the bed. “That’s Patriot. He’s Enjolras’s.”

“No, he’s not. None of the cats are anybody’s yet,” Enjolras said.

“I thought your friend Jehan wanted one?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Well, if Jehan can have one, why can’t you? You and Patriot are so cute together.”

“I’m _not_ cute.”

Grantaire slammed his finger into the wall, right next to the baby picture. “I have photographic evidence that says otherwise.”

Courfeyrac giggled and slung his arms around both of their shoulders, leading them from the room. “You two fight like an old married couple.”

Enjolras sent a glare towards him. “Courfeyrac . . .”

“You guys want some late lunch?” Combeferre called from the kitchen. He was already pulling out tortillas and vegetables from the fridge and putting them onto the counter. “We can talk about the situation while you eat.”

 

Xxx

 

Fifteen minutes later, Enjolras and Grantaire were chowing down on homemade wraps at on the couch while Courfeyrac snacked on an open bag of chips. They gave a recount of their story, Enjolras telling the part before St. Petersburg and Grantaire telling the part after. Combeferre was busying himself taking notes on a memo pad.

When they were done, he put his pen down. “After you called yesterday, I pulled together as much information as I could get about the Fort Myers Cat Thief just so we know where we stand. It’s . . . not great? I mean, you could definitely get off the hook. But you left a pretty obvious trail of breadcrumbs, Enjolras.”

Enjolras shook his head. “Like what?”

“Like a _burning vehicle_.”

It was deadly silent for a few seconds. Courfeyrac crunched down on a very loud chip.

“Breadcrumbs,” Combeferre repeated.

“Yeah,” Enjolras said. “I see that.”

Grantaire finished chewing a bite of his wrap. (All the ingredients here were fresh—these people actually had their shit together.) “But Javert decided that we weren’t the people in question. He literally left the bed and breakfast while we were still there.”

Courfeyrac sucked in a breath. “It’s still pretty risky.”

“Regardless of the fact that he left, he still considers you suspects,” Combeferre told them. “What if he discovers more evidence that points to you? What about that stolen car literally right outside our apartment?”

The living room went silent again.

“I can drop it off somewhere,” Enjolras said.

“You better.”

“Combeferre—”

“I’m just worried about you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Combeferre stood and took Enjolras in his arms. Enjolras was already a fairly tall guy (at least compared to Grantaire), but tucked into the couch cushions, he looked small. _Especially_ when stickman Combeferre was leaning down to hug him.

When Combeferre stood back, Enjolras didn’t meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry for dragging you all into this. I’ve put you in danger, and you don’t deserve that.” Enjolras then looked around at everyone, Grantaire included. “But thank you for standing by me anyway.”

Courfeyrac leaned forward on his chair and squeezed Enjolras’s shoulder. “We always will, even with your wild assortment of illegal masquerades. That’s what makes spending time with you so exciting.”

Enjolras snorted, the bright look on his face returning. “If only this situation wasn’t explicitly illegal. Then we could advertise it on the ABC’s website.”

“Too bad, Enjolras,” Combeferre said. “We only post about _almost_ illegal things.”

A burst of laughter went around the room.

“The ABC?” Grantaire asked.

“Enjolras didn’t tell you?” Courfeyrac pulled out his phone and started tapping the screen.

“No.”

“Here,” he said, and he handed the phone over to Grantaire.

There was an Instagram page open—it’s username: **The Friends of the ABC** _._ Under the bolded title was a _Political Organization_ tag and a quick bio consisting of words like “equality” and “freedom” and “rights.” The profile photo was some fancy looking logo; if Grantaire remembered correctly, it was a cockade rosette.

“Are you guys part of this?” Grantaire asked.

“We created it,” answered Enjolras.

Grantaire started scrolling through the photos. Most of them were from protests: people marching, colorful posters, clenched fists. Others were graphics showing important information. One was a “Know Your Rights” list. The next one was a voting registration announcement.

Grantaire kept scrolling until he landed on a video taken at a rally. Standing on a makeshift stage in front of a pedestal was a very familiar looking blond man giving a speech into a microphone, his other hand gesticulating wildly.

“It’s you,” Grantaire said.

“That was taken this spring during Georgetown’s walkout against gun violence.” Enjolras’s voice was close to Grantaire’s ear, and it was only then when Grantaire realized that Enjolras was leaning over his shoulder.

Grantaire did his best to casually scoot away. “Is the ABC run by Georgetown? Or is it separate?”

Combeferre let out a shaky laugh. “It _was_ part of Georgetown. But then things got a little too rowdy, and we had to cut ourselves off from the school before we got shut down.”

“What did you do? Punch the dean of students in the face or something?”

“No,” Enjolras said. “It was the head of the psychology department.”

Grantaire did a double take. “You’re joking, right? Because _I_ was joking.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Why the hell did you—I’m sorry. Let me get this right. Why did you—and I’m assuming it was you, Enjolras—punch the head of the psychology department?”

“Because she spoke to Jehan about seeing a therapist, which would have been great in theory because going to therapy needs to be destigmatized. But the reason she wanted them to go was to ‘help’ them figure out their ‘gender issues’ because apparently, according to her, non-binary people don’t exist.” He accented his words with finger quotes, each hand movement an abrupt jerk. “So, I punched her.”

Grantaire had been wondering about the whole Jehan situation. When he’d been talking with Enjolras before, he’d had just assumed he’d missed some vital comment about which pronouns to use, but now it made sense.

“Did you get it on video?” Grantaire asked. “I’d love to see that.”

Courfeyrac snatched his phone back. “I did! Let me pull it up.”

Combeferre cleared his throat, probably wanting to get back to the topic at hand. “Grantaire, have you been in contact with any family or friends back home? It would be a huge help if we could confirm to the media that you haven’t actually been kidnapped.” He was already poised to write more notes down.

Grantaire shrugged. “I don’t know anyone’s numbers, and as we explained before, _someone_ broke my phone.”

Enjolras put his hands in his lap. “I said I was sorry.”

“Even if you don’t know their numbers, have you tried contacting them through social media?” Combeferre asked.

Grantaire blinked. He’d never thought about that. It was a really obvious idea, and he couldn’t believe it had never occurred to him sooner.

His family was out of the question. He didn’t think they had any social media, and even if they did, he didn’t want to be hitting them up. Montparnasse, on the other hand, was a devout Instagrammer. He posted almost daily pictures of whatever outfit he was wearing. Eponine didn’t have much in the way of social media given that she spent most of her day working multiple jobs, but Grantaire was almost sure she had an Instagram too. If not, at least Twitter or Facebook.

“I can do that right now if I can use somebody’s phone.”

Combeferre let out a sigh of relief. “Okay. Fantastic. Courf—?”

“Yeah?” He was still scrolling to find that video of Enjolras punching the head of the psychology department.

“Can I see your phone really fast?”

Courfeyrac stopped searching and handed it over.

After going back to the home screen, Combeferre gave it to Grantaire. “If you need social media, Courfeyrac has it. We can get you a new phone soon enough.”

“I really am sorry about breaking it,” Enjolras said, his eyes earnest. “I can pay for a new one.”

Grantaire knew he couldn’t afford to get a phone for himself, but he didn’t want Enjolras paying for it either. He didn’t want that pity. “It’s cool. I can get it.”

“Are you sure? I mean—”

“Seriously, I got it. But thanks.”

 

x x x

 

Later that afternoon—hell, it was already evening—Grantaire sat on the couch in the apartment by himself. Like, _all_ by himself. After Grantaire had sent a very cryptic direct message over Instagram to Eponine, Enjolras and Combeferre left to dump the stolen car off and Courfeyrac had gone with Jehan to the vet.

Even after spending just ten minutes with Jehan (and most of that time was spent just trying to herd the cats into some carriers that they had brought with them), Grantaire knew he liked them. Between cries of pain whenever the cats scratched someone, they’d managed to turn the conversation onto Ancient Roman poetry. Jehan loved reading Sappho; Grantaire was more of a Catullus guy. Regardless, they were both Latin nerds.

Lovers of the Classics are hard to find, but once they’re found, you have to stick by them like glue.

As soon as the cats were collected, Jehan and Courfeyrac left. Grantaire would have gone with them, but they were taking the bus and Grantaire didn’t have a pass yet. Enjolras and Combeferre had already been gone for a half-hour at that point.

There was something both exciting and uncomfortable about being alone in someone else’s house. Exciting because everything was new; uncomfortable because _everything was new_. To mitigate this feeling, Grantaire had made a nest for himself on the couch and was currently watching a recorded _X-Files_ episode. Scully was in the middle of dissecting some poor guy’s body when the apartment telephone started to ring.

Grantaire decided not to pick it up; it wasn’t his place to do so. He just furrowed deeper in the blanket nest and kept his eyes glued to the TV.

But then he remembered that in the direct message he’d sent to Eponine, he’d included the apartment’s house phone number.

“Shit,” he said.

He sprang up from the couch and nearly tripped on the blankets. Managing to steady himself and bound over to the kitchen where the phone was, he picked it up and held it to his ear. (It was connected to the _wall_ , for God’s sake).

“Hello?” Grantaire asked. His breathing was already ragged.

“Uh, hi. Is this . . . Grantaire?” It was Eponine’s voice.

“Eponine!”

“Grantaire?”

“Yeah!”

“God, Grantaire. I was worried as hell.”

“Sorry, ‘Ponine.” He pressed the phone closer to his ear. It was static-y with age. “I would have explained more over DM, but we weren’t sure it would be safe. You know, just in case it could be used as evidence.”

“What the fuck? Where are you? Who’s ‘we’?”

“It’s . . . sort of complicated to explain. Are you at work?”

“I’m driving home right now.”

“Okay, then I have time.” He started telling the story again for the second time that day, first about the West Flamingo Bar and finally ending with his arrival in DC. At that point, she cursed.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re being serious?”

“You didn’t think I was being serious this entire time?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past you.” He heard a sigh on the other end of the line. “R, you have to come back soon. Montparnasse is being a pain in the ass, and rent is due in four days.”

That was when _Grantaire_ cursed.

“Okay, look,” he said. “I know it’s going to sound absurd, but I was actually planning on staying up here. I want you to come up too. I know it’ll probably be more expensive living in DC, but there are more opportunities here than in St. Petersburg. What do you say?”

“I say that’s a terrible idea.”

“Why?”

“Because who else is going to watch Gavroche? My parents are shit, R. They’re the reason I have to work so many fucking jobs because if I don’t, he won’t have any new clothes for school.”

Grantaire bit his lip. “Bring him up with you.”

“You want me to steal my younger brother?”

“I just stole four cats. It’s easier than it sounds.”

There was a pause, and then the sound of Eponine’s laughter erupted from the phone. Grantaire smiled. She didn’t laugh often enough.

“I’ll indulge you for a few minutes,” Eponine conceded. “What would be our plan once we’re both in DC?”

“Are you really considering this?”

“I’m _indulging_ this. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Okay, okay, I just—God. This is important to me. And I think it would be good for the both of us to get the hell out of St. Petersburg. You said it yourself, your parents are shit. I would also like to point out that you’re old enough to be the legal guardian of Gavroche, so that solves that problem. I mean, it’ll be hard to get your parents on board with that decision, but we can do it. I have a lawyer friend now.”

“‘A lawyer friend,’” she repeated. “Sounds classy.”

“Shut up. He’s pre-law, but he still knows what he’s doing.”

“Is this the cute one?”

Grantaire ran his hand over his face, trying to push down the regret already bubbling in his gut. He shouldn’t have mentioned his feelings towards Enjolras while explaining the situation to her. “ . . . Yes?”

“Is this why you want to stay in DC? For him?”

“No. Not just that.”

“But that’s part of the reason.”

Grantaire leaned backward on the counter. “Maybe.”

Eponine sighed. “I’ll think about it. I’m pulling into parking garage right now, so I’m about to lose the call. Talk to you soon, though.”

“Talk to you soon, Eponine. Sorry for not getting in contact with you earlier.”

“Just don’t do anything _more_ stupid than what you’ve already done, okay?”

“Promise.”

He hung up the phone, placing it in the cradle on the wall.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

Grantaire contemplated answering it. He wanted to ignore it and settle back down onto the couch and watch Scully dig around through that cadaver’s body.

But then a voice on the other side of the door boomed, “Police! Open up!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out my tumblr enjolryas for more les mis content and any questions you have! 
> 
> expect another chapter update in a week.
> 
> also: I may not reply to all the comments, but I always read them and they make my day — so thank you guys!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the police are here and everything goes to shit basically. so much angst.

Grantaire, believe it or not, had never been arrested before. There had been some close calls, mostly just noise complaints from neighbors, but no one had actually done anything about it. All of his knowledge about going to jail consisting of stuff he’d learned from _Law and Order: SVU_. That is to say, jack shit.

As it was, he had no idea what to do. He obviously shouldn’t open the door, but he couldn’t just wait around until the officer went away. Hell, the officer could easily break the door; there was just one shitty lock.

As if on queue, a shuddering sound and a loud bang came from the other side, and then the door was being thrown open, splinters of wood raining down onto the cheery welcome mat below. Sheriff Javert came lurching through the doorway, looking as if he couldn’t believe he’d actually broken the lock.

Begging the universe to make sure Javert didn’t see him, Grantaire bit back a yelp and ducked behind the kitchen counter. He automatically reached into his back pocket where his phone should have been. Of course, there was nothing there.

He needed to call Enjolras. If anyone came home right now, things would go from bad to worse. It wasn’t like he could reach up to the kitchen phone even if he wanted to; Javert would see a hand popping out from behind the counter, and Grantaire didn’t even know Enjolras’s number.

Grantaire really needed to get his shit together. He was so fucked.

“Is anyone here?” Javert called.

Grantaire could hear his footsteps moving across the living room floor, and he did his best to shrink back against the cabinets. Maybe if he didn’t move, he would be silent enough for the ongoing _X-Files_ episode to drown out any noise he made.

It sounded like Javert was moving towards one of the bedrooms. Grantaire still felt frozen; everything that had happened over the past two days was on the line and he was helpless but to feel the weight of the world digging into his shoulders. If Javert discovered him, Grantaire would be taken in for questioning. Enjolras would be arrested and charged with a multitude of things, including kidnapping, even if Grantaire claimed it wasn’t true. The doomed future of their combined fates unfurrowed before him, and all Grantaire wanted to do was hide and cry and yell.

It wasn’t fair. Javert shouldn’t have even been at the apartment in the first place; he left the bed and breakfast, basically letting them go free. Grantaire thought they were off the hook.

That’s why he had to find a way to let Enjolras know what was going on. By now, the scrape of hangers on metal told Grantaire that Javert was digging through one of the bedrooms’ closets. He clenched his fists and took a deep breath, steadying himself for what he was about to do.

Grantaire peeked around the corner of the kitchen counter. He could see Javert’s back through Enjolras’s doorway. Javert had a scratch pad tucked under his arm and was now searching the desk, stacks of paper tipping over and drifting onto the floor in his hunt.

Furious heat bubbled up in Grantaire’s chest. Javert was ruining Enjolras’s perfect chaos of notes as if he owned the place, and all Grantaire could do was sit there and watch. He wanted to stand and shout at Javert to stop, to go back to wherever the hell he came from, to leave them alone because Enjolras was right, _he was always right_ , and those cats deserved happy homes just like everyone else.

In his state of blind vigor, Grantaire hadn’t noticed Javert turn around.  

He also hadn’t noticed Javert rushing towards him.

Grantaire gasped and jumped up from his crouch, immediately throwing his fists in front of his face in defense. Javert’s step faltered until he stopped a yard away from where Grantaire stood.

“We’re going to get you out of here, okay?” Javert said. His voice was hushed and calm. “You’re safe now.”

Grantaire gave him a bewildered stare and kept his hands clenched. “Back the fuck up.”

“What?” Javert asked. His face was equally bewildered. “What are you—? Look, I’m going to bring you to the station to get everything sorted out, and we’ll catch that boy you were with last night. Do you know where he is?”

Grantaire didn’t lower his fists. “I’m not going with you anywhere, and I’m not telling you shit.”

“I’m a police officer. We can work together to get you back home, Grantaire.”

“What? How—how do you know my name?”

Javert was only supposed to know his nickname.

“The missing person report came out late last night,” Javert informed him. Grantaire had forgotten about the report. Twenty-four hours had already elapsed since his departure, so its releasement made sense. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten about it. “I’m willing to guess that your captor has kept you under close wraps to stop you from accessing the internet and seeking help, but your report consisted of necessary personal information and a picture. When I saw the picture this morning, I recognized you immediately and created a plan to rescue you. I knew my gut was correct. You weren’t cousins from Kansas. It all lined up: Enjolras’s reaction to hearing about the case, your physical appearance, the burned up vehicle outside Eastover that was remarkably similar to your own.”

Realization dawned on Grantaire. Javert didn’t want to arrest him. He was trying to fucking _save_ him. Grantaire didn’t know whether to burst out laughing or faint from relief, but a glance down at the handcuffs attached to Javert’s belt sobered him. Still at risk was Enjolras, all wrapped up in a pretty bow for Javert to ship off to jail if he came home.

Since Grantaire couldn’t get out of the apartment unseen, he could at least try and get Javert to leave. To play along, he lowered his hands.

“Thank you, Sheriff Javert. That means so much to me.”

Javert looked genuinely touched. “I’m just doing my job, son.”

Grantaire had to keep himself from cringing. This entire situation was so messed up. “But I have to let you know that I wasn’t kidnapped. I came to DC voluntarily.”

“I understand that your captor, Enjolras, has compelled you to say that, just like how he forced you to go along with everything he said  at dinner last night But I’m here to take you home.”

Grantaire blinked, shifting his eyes back and forth between Javert and the broken-open door. Enjolras could walk through any minute. “How did you find me?”

“When I saw your missing person report this morning, I left to stake out the house until you two left. Then, I followed your stolen car from a distance until reaching Washington DC, when I lost sight of you with all the traffic. I was forced to stop at the nearest police station and request that they track the vehicle’s license plate number, and once they found it, I raced over to this location as soon as I could. Unfortunately, the car was already gone, but I decided to search the apartment anyway. And here you are.”

Grantaire bit the inside of his cheek. “Here I am. But your presence here isn’t necessary. I haven’t been kidnapped. Enjolras is innocent.”

“Even if he didn’t steal _you_ , he certainly stole four cats and multiple cars.”

“Do you have evidence of that?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean . . .” Grantaire had no idea where he was going with this. “Do you have evidence that Enjolras, specifically, stole four cats and multiple cars?”

Javert put a hand on Grantaire shoulder. Grantaire wanted to step backwards, but he stopped himself. “Young man, don’t concern yourself with such matters. He’ll be convicted, don’t you worry. Look.” Javert moved his hand from Grantaire’s shoulder and reached for the scratch-pad he had under his other arm. When he pulled it out, he turned it around for Grantaire to see. Grantaire read the first line.

_Saturday, June 23nd — Enjolras breaks into Friends Fur Ever at approximately 4:15 AM_

Well. Fuck. Those were Combeferre’s notes. Javert turned the page over, only to reveal even more notes. Then he turned the page again. And again. And again.

They were so utterly screwed.

Grantaire forced himself to look away from the papers. “Where did you get these?”

Javert jutted his chin towards Enjolras’s bedroom. “Desk.”

Grantaire’s worry was beginning to swirl with anger. This man had the audacity to not only break the lock on the apartment door and mess up Enjolras’s desk, but also take some hardcore evidence.

“You know what?” Grantaire bit out. “You’re completely wrong.”

Javert furrowed his brow. “In what way?”

“In _every_ way. Enjolras didn’t steal those cats, he didn’t steal any cars, and he definitely didn’t steal me. You’ve got the wrong guy. I was with him the entire time, and I think I would know whether or not he did any of those things.”

Javert gripped the notes so that their edges crumbled a bit. “I don’t know why you’re saying these things, but I think we should take you into the station. We can get everything sorted out there.”

He reached for Grantaire again, and this time, Grantaire did step back. “Like I said before, I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t know anything about those notes or your claims, but they’re all false.”

“My claims aren’t false.”

“Then what specific evidence do you have?” Grantaire pointed at the notes. “Somebody’s handwriting? Could be wrong. Besides—” Grantaire blessed Combeferre for doing all that research on the Fort Myers Cat Thief and telling them the information, “—you have no viable tape recordings of Enjolras stealing anything. The only footage you have that can be used in a court of law is the security video taken outside the West Flamingo Bar, and you said it yourself last night: you can’t actually see Enjolras in that shot. Besides that, a judge will have nothing to base his guilt or innocence on except hearsay. _Your_ hearsay.”

Grantaire had no idea if that was true or not, but it sure as hell sounded legitimate.

Javert was stock still for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “My God. You’re _working_ with him.”

“No,” Grantaire said. He squared his shoulders. “I’m _friends_ with him, and I’m sticking up for my friend because he’s innocent. That’s what friends are for.”

That _was_ what friends were for, and Grantaire knew that he would defend Enjolras even if his own life was at stake. He loved Enjolras. He always would.

Javert, like the indignant child he was, shook the notes in front of Grantaire’s face. “He clearly isn’t innocent. Everything is written down right here.”

Without even thinking, Grantaire ripped the notes from Javert’s hand and bolted away, racing towards the apartment door. It was still ajar from when Javert first entered, and Grantaire barreled through, never risking a glance back as he bounded down the building’s stairs and out the front door. He had no idea what he was doing, but he knew he had to do it.

Suddenly, the notes in his hand were crushed as he collided with someone, their chests crashing together and their bodies tumbling onto the pavement in a mess of limbs and grunts. Grantaire groaned. He was about to scramble up and start booking it down the road again when he realized who the hell he was on top of.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras hissed, “what on Earth are you are you doing?”

They were splayed against each other, Grantaire’s hips pinned between Enjolras’s thighs, their chests completely pressed together. Enjolras’s breath was hot on Grantaire’s neck. After the shock of the crash, Grantaire had only the power to lay there stunned and stare down at the man below him. Enjolras’s eyes were wide and a piece of his hair was caught in the corner of his lips, and Grantaire wanted to reach out and sweep it away.

Instead, Grantaire grasped Enjolras’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Enjolras’s eyes blurred a moment as he looked down at Grantaire’s lips. They were so close, and Grantaire understood everything immediately. This was much too inappropriate and forward for Enjolras, even if it was on accident.

Crawling away from Enjolras, Grantaire tried to stand, but his attempt was pitiful: their hips rubbed together, and Grantaire wanted to combust. He grimaced, noticing Enjolras’s scarlet flushed cheeks and wondering if his own were that bad.

Suddenly, Combeferre was by their sides and helping each of them up.

“Why were you moving so fast?” Combeferre asked Grantaire.

Grantaire glanced back at the apartment door and then at the crumpled papers in his hand. “Javert is here. We need to fucking go.”

That was all he had to say before the three of them shared one mutual, understanding look. It read, “Run.”

They ran.

 

x x x

 

In any other situation, Grantaire would have loved visiting DC. The history museums, the art galleries, and the monuments held the perfect balance between past and future. When he was a kid, he’d gotten it in his head that he wanted to be the director of the Smithsonian just so that he could get a backstage pass to all the really cool exhibits.

One non-existent art school diploma later, Grantaire was now wondering if being a simple museum receptionist was an option. Working in the safety of a museum would have been much more pleasant to what he was doing now, which could only be described as _disagreeable_.

Grantaire sat in the back booth in a progressive hipster cafe with Enjolras and Combeferre. He didn’t have anything against progressive hipster cafes, per say. It was just the fact that their waitress was über cheerful and sassy, and after running (too many) miles and probably sabotaging Enjolras’s chance at freedom, Grantaire didn’t care for that shit at all.

According to Enjolras and Combeferre, this cafe was a safe place to stay while Javert looked for them. This was apparently one of their regular public meeting places for the ABC. They knew the staff, and the staff knew them. Nothing would come of harm to them there.

Grantaire wasn’t much for relying on other people’s claims, but given the fact that he had no other choice, he sat back and sipped a black coffee. It would’ve tasted better with bourbon.

Combeferre hadn’t even touched his tea yet. Instead, he had his head propped up and was staring down at the notes as if the action would make them burst into flames. Maybe that’s what he really wanted: to get rid of the evidence in a smoldering blaze.

“I’m so sorry, Enjolras,” Combeferre said sincerely. “I left them in your room so that you could look over them tonight and make any revisions in case we missed anything.”

Enjolras shook his head and put his hand on Combeferre’s shoulder. “This isn’t your fault. It’s mine. I was the one who dragged all of you into this.”

“Enjolras, please don’t blame yourself,” Grantaire said over the rim of his mug. “I mean, it _is_ your fault, but all of us have messed up. Like when Combeferre left the notes out in the open, or when I took official evidence right from Javert’s hands.”

Combeferre’s look softened, and he pushed his glasses up with his index finger. “Well, we can’t do anything about the past now. What we can do, however, is work to amend the present.” He took the papers and started to rip them up.

Enjolras broke into a grin. “Don’t have all the fun.”

He started grabbing smaller pieces of paper as they fell from Combeferre’s hands and shredding them into a neat pile in the middle of the table. When the waitress came by again, she swept away the remains and dropped them in the recycling bin while giving a pointed look at Enjolras and Combeferre.

“Thank you, Musichetta,” Enjolras called.

“Better tip me well,” she replied, but her amused smile mitigated any seriousness.

Enjolras turned back to the table and let out a long sigh.

Combeferre gave him a concerned glance. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I just . . . was thinking.” His lips twitched and his fingers tapped the sides of his mug. “I think I should turn myself in.”

“No,” Combeferre said immediately. “There’s always another way.”

Grantaire couldn’t believe it. His Enjolras would _never_ give up so easily. This wasn’t right.

Grantaire leaned forward. “I agree with Combeferre on this one. I’m not letting you do that.”

“It’s not your choice,” Enjolras said simply. “If I turn myself in, we have the power to redirect the blame onto me, and _only_ onto me. I’m not going to be the reason you guys get jail time for aiding and abetting.”

Grantaire wanted to grab a mirror and shove it in Enjolras’s face so that he could see who he really was. Enjolras was a person who constantly radiated hope that seeped into all other aspects of life. His character was built upon foundations of optimism; his beauty was sculpted by Aphrodite; his voice was strung with the same chords that roused insurgence. To have such a tour de force locked away pained Grantaire, and he felt sick with the thought of it.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said slowly, “we’re going to find a way to get you out of this. The evidence Javert has against you is lacking.”

Enjolras didn’t look convinced. “This is my responsibility.”

“What about your responsibility to the ABC? How will you help save the world behind bars?”

“Plenty of people in jail have inspired others. And I also have a responsibility to protect my friends. Besides, as long as the cats are safe, that’s what matters. This isn’t up for discussion.”

“Well, too bad. I’m discussing it with you.”

“Why do you even care so much?” Enjolras asked. “You think it’s ridiculous that I took those cats. Well, here’s judgment day for you.”

Grantaire was taken aback. “I don’t think that at all.”

“You laughed right in my face when I told you in the car what I was doing.”

“What? When?”

“The night I picked you up from the bar.”

“Okay—that’s—no. Laughing was my gut reaction because the concept of stealing cats and smuggling them across state lines is, admittedly, ridiculous. But I don’t think that now.”

“Alright,” Enjolras said, a curt trill in his voice. “Then what _do_ you think, exactly?”

“I think that you’re being unfair. I was just trying to tell you that you shouldn’t turn yourself in because that’s a fucking dumb decision. What about your track record? Do you even know how long you would go to jail for? I bet it’s a fucking long time, Enjolras. Let’s just tally up all the illegal stuff you did, why don’t we?” Grantaire huffed and started counting on his fingers. “Stole four cats; stole three cars; erased security footage at an animal shelter; attacked somebody in a bar parking lot; kidnapped someone.”

Enjolras looked like he’d just been slapped. “You consider yourself kidnapped?” His voice was small.

“God no. But the law thinks I am. No matter what I say, I can’t control what the court charges you with.”

Enjolras didn’t speak. His eyes flicked down to his mug of coffee, and he gripped the edges until Grantaire could see his knuckles turn white. Grantaire reached across the table and laid his hand on Enjolras’s wrist to get his attention.

“I’d also like to point out that you have so much potential, and it would be devastating if that went to waste. I know the value of potential, and you’re kind of throwing it out the window.”

Enjolras’s eyes snapped up and he loosened his fingers on the mug and let his wrist drop onto the table so his palm fit against Grantaire’s. Grantaire’s breath hitched at the sudden contact.

“Everyone has potential,” said Enjolras, his voice still soft.

Grantaire scoffed. “I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.” Enjolras’s brow furrowed in clear concern, and he wrapped his fingers around Grantaire’s hand and squeezed. “You could do anything, Grantaire. You could go back to school if you wanted to. I haven’t seen your artwork, but I’m sure it’s beautiful. You just have to unearth enough hope inside yourself to see that.”

Grantaire’s cheeks burned, sending warbling fire down his throat until it felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest. No one had ever said that to him before.

“Enjolras . . .” Grantaire could feel Enjolras’s pulse beneath his fingers. “Just please don’t turn yourself in.”

They stared at each other. Even though they were in the back of the cafe, everything felt exposed and delicate, like if one thing were to be knocked out of balance, the roof would come crashing down and would wrap them in the fairy lights that hung from the ceiling. They would be buried in a cocoon of artificial starlight that no one would be able to get through, not even the police. And Enjolras would be safe. And they would be together.

Grantaire was beginning to think that maybe tipping the balance would be worth it. He licked his lips, twitched his fingers against Enjolras’s palm, hoped that _a lot of things_ were still being _felt_ , and opened his mouth to say—

Combeferre cleared his throat. “I, uh, just got a text from Joly saying that the cats are ready to go back to the apartment, but since it would be too dangerous to go back there, he offered to let us and the cats stay at his and Bossuet’s and Musichetta’s place.”

Enjolras quickly drew his hand away and turned towards Combeferre, as if completely cutting Grantaire off. “That sounds like a great plan. When we get the check for our drinks, we can ask Musichetta if she can drive us there.”

Combeferre nodded, glancing between Enjolras and Grantaire. “Right.”

The burning in Grantaire throat turned into a furious buzzing like a hive of bees was nesting there. He felt sick. Swallowing, he managed to get out, “That’s perfect.”

At least the housing situation had worked out.

 

x x x

 

Trying to fit seven people and four cats into a tiny DC apartment was not as easy as it might have sounded.

Grantaire made this note to himself as he crawled over a pile of blankets that had been dumped on the floor of the living room. He settled himself next to Joly, whose body was swamped by a huge, oversized sweater over a pair of scrubs. All seven of them had managed to find a place to sit in the room, but only Enjolras, Musichetta, and Courfeyrac had been lucky enough to snag the two-person loveseat and the one chair, respectively. The rest of the group resigned themselves to the floor.

The perk of being on the floor was that the cats were there too. Grantaire scooped Hamlet up into his lap and pressed his face into the soft layer of fur. Hamlet let out a deep, resounding purr.

“—and that’s why Feuilly’s seven-layer-dip is the best thing to ever be created.” Joly finished his story with a giant grin and held aloft Toffee—who had been curled in his lap—like a _Lion King_ reenactor. Toffee squirmed, and when Joly set her back down, she scampered off into the kitchen. Next to him, Bossuet burst out laughing.

“For a vet, you have no idea how to handle animals,” he said, bumping shoulders with Joly.

Joly swatted his chest. “Don’t make me tell the story about that time when I brought you to work with me and you accidentally locked yourself in a dog kennel.”

Musichetta, sitting on the loveseat behind them, chuckled and put both of her socked feet on their heads. She ruffled Joly’s hair, and when she rubbed Bossuet’s head with her other foot, Grantaire was surprised it didn’t squeak. The shininess of his bald head was impressive, to say the least.

“Well, it’s almost midnight. I’m heading to bed,” she said. She scooted off the couch and pointed down at the pile of blankets. “You four can use these to sleep under, but you’ll have to deal with not having pillows. We don’t own any extra. Also, for pajamas, just look in there and see what fits.” She moved her pointer finger towards a small closed door, which Grantaire guessed held a washer and dryer.

Courfeyrac gave her a thumbs up. “Sounds good, ‘Chetta. Thanks again for letting us crash here.”

Joly stood as well and pulled Bossuet after him.

“It was the least we could do. I mean, you still have to pay for that vet bill, but we could at least offer you lodging.” Joly grabbed his cane from where it had been propped against the couch and leaned his weight on it.

“We’re allowed to pay you in stickers, right?” Combeferre asked, nodding his head over to the window. Hundreds of stickers of various sizes and shapes were stuck onto the glass, and Grantaire wondered how they would ever get them off cleanly.

Joly grinned again. Grantaire decided he liked Joly a lot.

“Stickers _and_ movie marathon double dates,” Bossuet corrected.

Combeferre nodded seriously. “Seems fair.”

“Really though,” Enjolras said, “we’ll get that bill paid. Thank you again for all of your help.”

Enjolras had barely spoken at all since they’d left the cafe and hadn’t even looked at Grantaire. That hurt, and Grantaire was sure it was his fault. He shouldn’t have been so forward back at the cafe. Enjolras had probably caught onto his feelings by then, and given that in the past few hours they had managed to not only accidentally grind against each other and inadvertently hold hands, Enjolras had probably decided to stay away from Grantaire. Now, Enjolras was burrowed into the corner of the loveseat with his knees tucked to his chest and a red blanket draped around his shoulders. That was the body language of a person who was uncomfortable.

After multiple goodnights, Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta left the living room to head to their bedroom, leaving Grantaire, Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and all the cats to fend for themselves. Grantaire guessed that their three hosts were all in a relationship, but he wasn’t sure how to ask.

Letting out a loud yawn, Courfeyrac splayed out in the chair he was in. “I’m exhausted. Do you know how hard it is lugging four cats to the vet and back, even with Jehan’s help?”

“I’ll hopefully never have to experience that,” Combeferre said, stretching. “If you guys don’t mind, I’d like to go to bed now too.”

They all gladly agreed, and Grantaire hauled himself up to get changed. As he’d guessed, the small door did lead into a tiny laundry room, and all four of them shuffled around and filed through stacks of clothes until they found stuff that seemed comfy enough to sleep in. This was the second night in a row that Grantaire had to change in front of Enjolras, but this time, Enjolras was changing in front of him, too.

Grantaire didn’t know whether or not that was a blessing or a curse. Considering the fact that Enjolras probably hated Grantaire’s guts, he settled on curse.

Back in the living room, Combeferre and Courfeyrac put a sheet and a blanket on the loveseat. Even despite the couch’s small size, they both managed to fit. Courfeyrac all but threw himself on top of Combeferre to make enough room.

Grantaire and Enjolras laid out their blankets on the floor. They had pulled the coffee table out of the way to make more room, but the small space of the living room only allowed for them to have their designated “beds” a foot apart. Still, it wasn’t as embarrassing as sleeping in the _same_ bed, so Grantaire took a deep breath and laid down, letting Hamlet plop himself next to him.

Enjolras turned off the lights and made his way back to the blanket at Grantaire’s side. Grantaire could still sort of see his silhouette outlined in the gray night haze from the window.

“Night, guys,” Courfeyrac murmured.

“Goodnight,” Combeferre answered.

Grantaire pulled the blanket further up and wished he had a pillow. “Night.”

It was silent for a while before Enjolras hummed. “Goodnight, everyone. Love you guys.”

Grantaire couldn’t help but smile. He wanted to say, _I love you too_. But he didn’t, and he never would. Instead, he let his spine relax against the carpet and let his eyes drift shut into sleep.

 

x x x

 

When Grantaire woke up in the morning, sunlight was streaming in through the window. It was early morning light, and Grantaire allowed himself to open and close his eyes slowly, basking in the cool and musk-free apartment air so unlike his own back home. The warm weight on his chest told him that one of the cats had made a bed for himself there. Grantaire squinted down at Cleopatra, still sleeping.

The sound of soft snoring came from Grantaire’s right, where Combeferre and Courfeyrac were still passed out together. Courfeyrac’s face was smushed against Combeferre’s chest and his tight curls were wild looking. Combeferre, on the other hand, looked too professional to be sleeping, since he’d forgotten to take his glasses off before calling it a night. Even though Grantaire had only known them for less than twenty-four hours, he felt a sense of pride in them. All of the friends he’d met so far in DC loved and trusted each other without a single hint of hesitation. Grantaire wanted that for himself. He wanted that for Eponine, too.

Most of all, he wanted to be held the way Courfeyrac was holding Combeferre. Grantaire’s chest ached. He had been in relationships in the past, sure. But none of them had been serious or long-term, and he wanted something like that now. He’d always wanted something like that. He’d just been too afraid to get it.

Grantaire turned his head to look at Enjolras beside him, but there was no one there.

The blanket was folded neatly and a sticky note lay on top.

Grantaire lurched forward, throwing Cleopatra off his chest. The cat tumbled to the floor and let out a shrill _mew_ , but Grantaire was too busy seizing the note and reading it.

_Turning myself in. Sorry. Had to do it. Thank you for everything, and I love you all. - E_

Grantaire couldn’t believe it. He read the note six times over just to make sure it was real. He should have made Enjolras promise not to do this. He should have done lots of things, actually. Looking Enjolras in the eye and saying, _You make me feel a lot of things, too_ was at the top of his list, but he’d give anything to just say a simple _thank you_. Now, it didn’t matter.

“Guys,” Grantaire croaked.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac stirred. Going to rub his eyes, Combeferre frowned when his hand met his glasses. Courfeyrac let out a small giggle and pushed them up his nose.

“Guys,” Grantaire repeated. His heart felt like it had been thrown into a blender. “It’s Enjolras.”

He didn’t even have to read them the note before realization hit their faces. He wasn’t sure he could have read it to them even if he wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out my tumblr enjolryas for further updates, but the next chapter won't be posted for two weeks probably (sorry! things are getting busy though). the next chapter (might?) be the last or second-to-last one. we'll see.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> find out what happens to your local idiot enjolras because he was dumb enough to turn himself in

Grantaire was hunched over a bowl of cereal. He couldn’t tell what kind it was; he’d been sitting like this for almost two hours, and the cereal had turned to mush. Every time he forced himself to take a bite, he could only taste the bile rising in his throat.

He had figured out pretty quickly that washing down his nausea with cereal wasn’t enough to calm his worry, so he mixed his coffee with some of the open wine he’d found in the fridge. The cork was brittle and dry—it would have gone bad soon anyway.

The taste of wined-down coffee soaked his taste buds, and now the nausea he felt was only from taste, not worry. But he could deal with horrible drinks. What he couldn’t deal with was the twisting presence in his gut, the constant reminder that Enjolras was in jail.

Grantaire took another swig of his concoction. He would need another few cups of this stuff if he was going to make it through the morning.

As it was, the small apartment was filled to the brim with people, like at a house party. But “house party” was the furthest thing to describe what was going on. It was like someone had shoved all the brightest minds in the world into one room and told them, “Make an omelet,” but no one had eggs and they were all late for a funeral.

So, you know, just your typical, panicked mess of mourning young adults.

Combeferre had called everyone together for an emergency ABC meeting in response to Enjolras’s disappearance. Since most of them had spent the night here anyway, only four new arrivals came.

The first person to show up was Jehan, who held a quick conversation with Grantaire about Medieval types of criminal punishment before shrugging and running a nervous hand through their hair. “But at least we have a more formidable legal system now,” Jehan piped, then quickly added, “For Enjolras, at least. He’s white and rich and a good student. He has what our justice system calls _potential_.”

Grantaire winced at that. He’d told the exact same thing to Enjolras last night in the cafe, but he hadn’t meant it quite so literally. If almost anyone else in the room—Grantaire included—were in Enjolras’s shoes right now, they would be having a much different conversation right now.

A much, much more apprehensive one.

A few minutes later, three more guys showed up. Feuilly was the one wearing a t-shirt with motor oil stains on it, Bahorel was the big one with the unbuttoned sportcoat, and Marius was the one in khakis. Grantaire was thankful for his good memory, or else there was no way he would ever remember all these new faces.

Thankfully, once everyone had arrived, things started getting less chaotic. Combeferre took over and explained to everyone what was happening. He pointed frequently to the wall behind him, where he had taped up Enjolras’s note. There were other things taped up, too: news articles on the Fort Myers Cat Thief, printed screenshots of released security footage, and _so_ many summaries of various laws.

It was ridiculous. There were almost a dozen people packed into the apartment, and none of them could realize how much of a fucking waste this all was.

Enjolras had _left_. He had turned himself in, and now he was going to jail. Grantaire didn’t know much about the law, but he knew from his high school civics class that arrested individuals always saw a judge within twenty-four hours. All of this—the notes, the papers, the images—were just lame excuses for something to do. The ABC members were redirecting their energy into something pointless. Soon, a judge would meet with Enjolras, and then he would find out what his exact charges were. _Then_ the ABC could focus on what to do next.

Grantaire had even told this exact thing to Joly a while ago when the guy had handed him the bowl of cereal. Joly just shook his head stiffly and scampered off again towards Combeferre’s Crime Wall, as Grantaire had nicknamed it.

Grantaire hadn’t spoken much to Joly since last night, but he was worried as hell for the guy. Joly hadn’t stopped bouncing around from person to person, making sure they were doing well, asking if they needed anything to eat or drink, telling Musichetta and Bossuet multiple times that he would be _right_ back, to not worry, that everything was fine. But then he would be gone for at least twenty minutes. When he came back, he looked wobbly and pale. His eyes were wide and his back was stiff, and Grantaire was reminded of a frightened cat.

The cats weren’t doing great, either.

Well, almost all the cats. Cleopatra seemed to like all the attention she was getting, but the rest? Not so much. Toffee was a particular favorite among the crowd, but she had quickly gotten overwhelmed and had hidden under the chair in the living room. When Grantaire had stolen away to the kitchen two hours ago—as an excuse to eat that sad bowl of cereal and drink his wine-coffee—Hamlet claimed the seat next to him at the kitchen table. It was as if even the cat didn’t want to be bothered by anyone, either.

Grantaire had no idea where Patriot was, and the cat’s disappearance almost made him laugh bitterly. Both Enjolras and his cat were missing. It was fitting.

Now, Grantaire was sitting alone in the kitchen and trying to pretend that his new version of spiked coffee was palatable. Besides, if he drank enough of it, his senses would be dull enough that he wouldn’t notice the taste anymore.

Suddenly, a head popped through the kitchen door. One of the new guys—Marius—burst through and didn’t bother closing the door behind him. Instead, he let out a huge sneeze.

“Sorry,” he snuffled, reaching towards the table where a pile of napkins lay. He blew his nose. “I’m allergic.”

“Allergic to crime conspiracies?” Grantaire asked, pointing his spoon through the open kitchen door into the living room where the Crime Wall was. It looked like something out of _The X-Files_. That must have been where Combeferre got his inspiration from.

Marius didn’t understand the joke. “I’m allergic to cats.”

“That’s mighty unfortunate.”

Marius grabbed a few more napkins for good measure and was halfway out the door before turning back towards Grantaire.

“Sorry about Enjolras,” he said sympathetically.

Grantaire just shrugged. It was the only thing he could allow himself to do.

“Is it true?” Marius asked after a few awkward beats. “That Enjolras picked you up, and you just . . . went along with it?”

Grantaire felt like he’d already told the story half a dozen times, and he had no desire to tell it again. “Uh-huh.”

Stealing a final glance towards the living room where everyone else was, Marius shuffled towards Grantaire. He looked like he wanted to ask something, but didn’t know how to go about doing it.

“How did you . . . I mean, it’s _Enjolras_.”

Grantaire thought it best not encourage any more conversation; he didn’t want to talk about Enjolras right now. That’s why he’d left the living room. “It sure is Enjolras.”

“So that means you know what you’re doing. Right?”

Grantaire furrowed his eyebrows. He was way too sober for this right now. “I can confidently tell you I have no idea what I’m doing, ever.”

“No, not in _general_ , but like . . . Enjolras doesn’t really . . .” Marius rubbed the back of his neck. “You know.”

“What?”

“Could I just—would you mind terribly if—uh, we maybe grabbed coffee sometime? I mean, I can only imagine how you’re feeling, and I’m really sorry for even bringing this up in the first place. I probably shouldn’t have. But I already did, so.” He let out a breathy laugh. “No take-backsies, right? Sorry.” Marius just stared down at him expectantly.

Grantaire was lost. “Um . . . okay?”

“But only if you’re comfortable with it.”

“Comfortable with . . . what?”

“With grabbing some coffee to talk about relationship stuff? And flirting?”

Now Grantaire was even more lost. “Huh?”

“There was this girl in my accounting class last semester, and I finally got her number, but I don’t know what else to do.”

Marius went to sit down next to Grantaire but realized there was a cat already sitting there, so he moved to the seat across the table. He sat down with a sneeze.

“I told my situation to Courfeyrac—” he pointed towards the living room “—and he tried giving me advice, but the stuff he told me to do seemed pretty extravagant—for me, at least. Then I asked everybody else what I should do, but they teased me because this girl is _way_ out of my league, and also because she was the teaching assistant for one of Enjolras and Bahorel’s classes last fall. Anyway, I’ve tried my luck with them, and I was kind of hoping you could give me pointers. If that makes sense.”

“And you think I’m qualified to do this because . . . ?”

“Because you managed to get the Enjolras Boyfriend Seal of Approval in, like, three days.”

Grantaire was glad he’d finished off his cup of kinda-coffee a while ago, because if he hadn’t, he would have spit it out. “You think I’m dating Enjolras?”

Marius looked confident about this. “Courfeyrac said you were.”

Grantaire swiveled his head to look into the living room. Courfeyrac was pointing at one of the security footage pictures on the wall. Grantaire was going to kill him. Was Grantaire’s crush really that obvious, that he radiated enough one-sided sexual tension to convince others that there was something going on between them?

“Well,” Marius started again, “he didn’t say you were dating, specifically.”

“Then what did he say, specifically?”

“Um.” Marius’s face was getting red, fast. “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?”

“I mean, I do. But it’s, um, inappropriate.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

Marius was flushed, and after a few seconds of excruciatingly painful eye contact, he finally spilled. “Courf was explaining what happened over the past few days, how Enjolras was arrested, et cetera. And then he got to the part where you two had to share a bed.”

Grantaire held up his hands to cut Marius off. “That’s not at all what Courfeyrac meant. Like, at _all_.”

At this point, Marius looked like he wanted to bolt from the room. “Oh. There must have been a miscommunication error.”

“Yes,” Grantaire said through gritted teeth. “There must have been.”

“I thought you two had—”

“Yeah. I understand that.”

“So you did?”

“ _No_.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. _Oh_.”

“I’m not the only one who thinks you two are together.”

Grantaire froze. If his crush was seriously this obvious to everyone, he was going to have to make a goddamn announcement. He stood and strode into the living room, leaving Marius in the kitchen and planting himself in front of the Crime Wall. The group turned their attention to him, because apparently storming into a serious meeting was notable.

He was prepared to say something along the lines of, “Look, everybody. I’m super glad you guys have wicked accurate crush-sensing technology, but I’m here to tell you that I am not in love with your super hot and very captivating leader. I would appreciate it if you would stop insinuating that we banged, thanks.” But he never got the chance to, because Bahorel jumped up from the couch and slammed his cellphone against his ear.

“Enjolras!” Bahorel boomed.

Grantaire clamped his mouth shut before he could go on his tirade. Was Bahorel talking to Enjolras? Who was on the other end of the line?

Bahorel spoke quickly into the phone. “Oh man, oh man. Yeah. Fuck. Okay. No? Really? That’s cool. Well, not _cool_. But it’s _legit_. He’s a legit guy. Is he—? Oh! How much did it cost? What the fuck. And they paid it? Damn. Is it taking place here in DC? Do you need someone to pick you up? Oh, he’s taking you to his office.” Bahorel put his hand over the speaker and whispered to everyone, “He’s taking him to his office,” before going back to the conversation. “Uh-huh. See you soon. Glad you’re not dead or anything. Bye.”

He hung up the phone and grinned at everybody.

Everybody just stared back at him, not understanding a what just happened.

“Enjolras is safe,” Bahorel finally said. “He’s been bailed out, and his lawyer is taking him back to the law firm.”

The dark mood of the living room dissolved with a universal sigh of relief.

 

x x x

 

After some hassled goodbyes, mostly everyone left for their respective jobs. Knowing about Enjolras’s safety was enough for them to have the impetus to get on with their lives, at least for now. Jehan claimed to be a self-employed writer, so they stuck around with Grantaire, who had no place else to be. Bahorel offered to take the two of them to the law firm.

“It’s the same one that I’ve been working for,” Bahorel told them. “I’m an intern, but Enjolras was supposed to take over my position. Guess that’s not happening now.”

Grantaire had completely forgotten about Enjolras’s internship. “Wasn’t he supposed to start that today?” Was it already Tuesday?

Bahorel shrugged. “I guess. But hey, he’s there right now. What a good employee.”

He’d meant it as a joke, and Grantaire forced himself to laugh.

Jehan was busy shouldering their colorful knit purse. “Let’s head out then. I’m assuming you can drive us?”

Bahorel was happy to drive them. He was already a few hours late for work, and by the time they arrived at the office building, the parking lot was completely full. It took them another fifteen minutes just to find a spot.

Once they were in the elevator and heading to the firm’s floor, Grantaire clasped his hands over and over again. The only people they had passed while walking through the lobby were adults wearing suits. Even Bahorel was wearing a suit, but with his loosely knotted tie and hair pulled back into a bun, he looked sorely out of place. No wonder he had tried to barter his internship off onto Enjolras. Grantaire didn’t want to be here either.

But Grantaire’s need to see Enjolras outweighed his uncomfortableness. Bahorel had explained on the ride over that Enjolras had made his initial appearance in court at eight o’clock this morning, the very first person to get a hearing. Grantaire assumed the hastiness might have been a result of all the shit Enjolras had been charged with and the desire to set his charges in motion.

Bahorel didn’t know anything else, but apparently the man whom Bahorel reported to was serving as Enjolras’s lawyer. It made sense, in the grand scheme of things. The man—Grantaire never caught his name—worked part-time at the firm and part-time as a Georgetown professor. He’d taught Enjolras’s Prisons and Punishment class last fall and had been the one to score Bahorel the internship.

With his one allotted phone call, Enjolras could have asked his parents for the family lawyer. (Grantaire scoffed at that. A _family_ lawyer. Of course they would have that.) Enjolras probably _should_ have done that, but he knew that their lawyer lived in Chicago (since that was where Enjolras’s family lived) and that it would take a while for the lawyer to arrive. So, he called his professor instead.

Grantaire found it sort of hilarious. It was even funnier to him that the professor had said yes.

When the elevators _dinged_ open, Bahorel led them through a regiment of cubicles until stopping at a closed door in the back of the office. The workers gave Grantaire and Jehan odd looks; Grantaire couldn’t blame them. He was still wearing Enjolras’s HRC shirt and his own pair of black jeans—the same ones he’d been wearing for, what, three days now? His hair was surely a mess, and he could only imagine how scruffy his stubble looked. In contrast, Jehan looked like a well-manicured, thrift-shop hurricane. Hell, they were even wearing leg warmers, which would have been slightly less noticeable if it weren’t so hot outside.

Bahorel knocked loudly on the closed door. Grantaire could hear voices inside, and then the door opened. A tall man stood on the other side, his face marked with concentration and smile lines. Looking past Bahorel—because he was surely used to Bahorel’s presence as an intern by now—he took Grantaire and Jehan in.

“Valjean, these are Grantaire and Jehan,” Bahorel said. “Grantaire was with Enjolras when—”

“When certain events took place. I’m aware. Please, everyone, come in.” Valjean held his hand out and motioned for them to enter his office.

There were half a dozen filing cabinets along the walls. A large oak desk stood in the center, short stacks of organized papers on its surface. There was even a potted philodendron in the corner; it was the only living thing inside the room besides Enjolras, who was sitting in front of the desk with his head in his hands.

When Enjolras heard them enter, he turned around and looked up, his eyes widening.

“Guys, what are you—why are you here? Did Bahorel bring you?”

“I thought you could use some friendly faces,” Bahorel said.

Enjolras smiled, but he looked exhausted. Dark circles marked the delicate skin under his eyes, and his face was framed in a wild mess of curls, a cloud of disheveled ringlets.

Standing, Enjolras made his way towards them and gave each of them a quick hug. When Enjolras got to Grantaire, there was a brief flash of hesitation in his eyes before he embraced him. The hug was short, but Grantaire made sure it was solid and secure. After the scare he’d gotten this morning, feeling Enjolras in his arms seemed surreal and he wanted to stretch it out for as long as possible.

When Enjolras pulled away, he gave Grantaire a small smile. He looked like he was about to say something else, but Valjean laid a hand on Enjolras’s shoulder to get his attention.

“We’ve been working for the past hour. How about you take a break?” suggested Valjean, who must have been the lawyer-slash-professor. “I’d like to brief Bahorel on what’s going on and give him some paperwork to deal with. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

The light in Bahorel’s eyes died a little. He shuffled towards the desk and sat in the chair Enjolras had been in when they first arrived.

“Thank you,” Enjolras sighed. Picking up a paper cup of coffee from the desk, he made his way outside. Grantaire and Jehan followed, and Valjean shut the door behind them.

Enjolras was silent as he made his way through the cubicles and into a small side room, one that had some chairs and a coffee table with magazines on it.

When they were settled, Jehan asked if Enjolras was alright.

“I’m fine,” he answered. “I’m lucky.”

Jehan raised an eyebrow. “Lucky?”

“I could have been sitting in a cell all day, waiting to have a hearing. This is better than I expected.”

“How did you get out? Like, how are you here and _not_ sitting in a jail cell right now?”

At this, Enjolras leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He took a long draw of coffee. “I can’t tell you guys everything, but I’ll do my best to answer your questions without revealing too much. Sharing information can have legal repercussions. That being said, it’s public news that I got out on bail. My parents paid it.”

“I thought you didn’t contact your parents?” Grantaire asked. “Didn’t you use your one call to ask Valjean to be your lawyer?”

“Yes, but he contacted my parents for me.” Enjolras let out a silent laugh. Only his shoulders moved, and he looked hollow. “What a way to ruin a summer beach vacation, huh? Getting a call from a lawyer that your child has been arrested for a multitude of reasons, and being asked, ‘Would you be so kind as to pay this huge fucking bail?’”

“They paid it without a problem?” Grantaire inquired.

Enjolras gestured to himself. “I’m sitting here, aren’t I?” He paused and let out a sigh. “Sorry for the sarcasm. I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours.”

Jehan hummed in sympathy. “You still have a long day ahead of you. Drink your coffee and hope it’s anointed with strength.”

“You’ll have to start measuring your life in coffee cups, not spoons,” Grantaire said. “It’s the only way you’ll make it through the day without passing out.”

Enjolras obliged and took another sip. “I’ve already had to recount literally everything that happened over the past three days. I’m not sure what else Valjean wants to talk to me about today, but I’m just glad that I’m able to provide him assistance. Sometimes attorneys have to pull the facts together while their client is still in jail, and it can be a hassle. That’s the benefit of being bailed out.”

“Wait, I’m confused.” Jehan held up their hands. “You turned yourself in. How exactly did you get out on bail?”

“Well, it wasn’t like I waltzed up to Javert and confessed my guilt. I just walked into the police station and sat down. Didn’t say anything, didn’t check in. Just plopped myself down in a chair and waited until Javert walked past on his way to get a midnight dose of coffee. No one else recognized me, but when he saw me, he arrested me on site. I didn’t have to confess anything at all.”

“And this has to do with bail because . . . ?”

“Because if I confessed and the court _knew_ I was guilty—” he spoke quietly, just barely above a whisper “—they wouldn’t have been very keen to let me walk, now would they?”

Grantaire was going to have to do some research on the criminal court system. He had a vague idea about how everything worked, thanks to when he took Civics in high school. But the nitty-gritty details, like the difference between a lawyer and an attorney, or the difference between a defendant and a plaintiff, made Grantaire feel lost.

“What were you charged with, officially?” Grantaire asked. He could at least try to understand.

With ease, Enjolras listed off his charges as if he’d done it a hundred times already. He probably had. “Four accounts of petty theft, three accounts of grand theft, one account of kidnapping, one account of breaking and entering, one account of destruction of property, and one account of trespassing.”

Grantaire sucked in a breath. That was a lot of charges. “How screwed are you?”

“If I’m convicted, I’ll be a felon. So, pretty screwed.”

“Fuck. Why the hell did you even turn yourself in? You’re a law student; you obviously knew this was going to happen.”

“Of course I knew this was going to happen. But the longer I waited, the more you guys were going to get involved, and the more likely it was that you would be arrested for aiding and abetting. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have stolen those cats. Or those cars. Or—”

Enjolras shushed him, his coffee nearly spilling. “I’m _innocent_. I’m going to plead not guilty.”

Grantaire blinked at Enjolras. “Whatever happened to Mr. Heroic Man who wanted to pay due penance for his crimes?”

“Valjean intervened. Besides, that was before I wracked up so many . . . potential . . . crimes.”

Jehan adjusted their grip on their purse. “Hypothetically, if you’re convicted, how long will you go to jail? And when is your trial date?”

“I have no idea how long my jail sentence could be. A long time, though. But my trial date is a different story. My preliminary hearing is two weeks from now. That’s when I’ll plead not guilty. After that, we have fifteen days to assemble evidence: names of witnesses, address numbers, physical things. That sort of stuff. Then we go in and tell the judge if we need extra time to collect evidence, or if we can go ahead and start the trail. Assuming we don’t need more time, it’s up for the judge to decide when my trial date should be. Although, my trial legally has to happen within six months.”

Jehan was nodding, but they looked worried. “That’s much longer than I thought it would take.”

“It’s a slow process, but once the trial itself begins, things get a little faster. But you still have to sit through all those testimonies. They’re a bore.”

“Aren’t you trying to become a lawyer yourself?” Grantaire asked. “Why bother if it’s so boring?”

“It’s not boring when _you’re_ the attorney. I’ve sat through a lot of trials for different classes, and I know court can be slow, but if I were an attorney, I wouldn’t be in the audience. I would be busy helping others. I’m going to be a public defender. That way, people who need an attorney but can’t afford one still get the benefit of a fair trial.”

Despite how tired Enjolras looked, his entire demeanor lit up when he started talking about public defense. There was a glimmer in his eyes, and Grantaire had gotten close enough to Enjolras over the past few days to know that a glimmer meant hope.

Someone knocked on the wall of the room. Grantaire turned to see Bahorel standing in the entrance and holding a stack of files; he’d taken off his coat to reveal some serious biceps under his dress shirt, which probably came in handy while lugging papers back and forth from the printer.

“Valjean wants to talk to Grantaire,” Bahorel said, adjusting his grip on the files.

Grantaire huffed in surprise but stood anyway. Enjolras was right behind him.

“No,” Bahorel said. “He goes alone. You can wait here, Enjolras.”

Grantaire glanced back at Enjolras, who looked resistant to sit back down.

“It’ll be fine,” Grantaire reassured him. “I’m sure he just wants to sort some stuff out. After all, I was with you half the time. Maybe you can try and sleep while I’m gone?”

Enjolras looked like he was going to protest, but Jehan immediately jumped up and ripped off their sweater.

“You can use this as a pillow,” Jehan said, tossing it to Enjolras.

Enjolras stared down at it and kneaded the teal fabric with his hands. It looked soft. “I really should be there if Grantaire needs me.”

“It’s going to take at least an hour, if not more,” Bahorel said. “You have time for a nap.”

An hour alone with Enjolras’s attorney. This was going to be fun.

Enjolras looked apologetic. His eyebrows were knit together and his mouth had formed into a little pout. “Are you sure you’ll be okay, Grantaire?”

Grantaire nodded and put on his nonchalance-face. “Born ready. Just please get some rest, Enjolras.”

After a few beats, Enjolras gave him a single nod. “Alright. Good luck.”

He folded the sweater in his arms and gave Grantaire an attentive smile. Jehan wished him luck as well, and then Grantaire followed Bahorel back to Valjean’s office.

Grantaire hoped the prickling feeling in his stomach was from nerves, not from Enjolras’s smile. No matter what these past three days had thrown at Enjolras, he always came out strong. Grantaire wished he could do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out my tumblr enjolryas for questions/concerns/updates
> 
> also, most of the court system information is correct but I changed around a few details to make it a simpler process. (it's still complicated and long, but slightly less so). 
> 
> expect updates every sunday from now on. and you guys were right -- claiming that the ending of this would be in 1-2 chapters was a mistake on my part. definitely going to take longer! maybe 10 chapters total (?)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hella cute pining content full steam ahead, folks.

Sitting in a chair is worse when the chair _looks_ soft, like your body will just melt into it, but in reality the chair is hard and the cushions are lumpy and you are full of regret. At least, this was the conclusion Grantaire came to an hour into the meeting.

It had taken the whole time to recount Grantaire’s side of the story, and when it was finally finished, Valjean nodded his head pensively.

“Both of your stories match up,” he said. He was sitting in a conference chair (one that probably had lumbar support—Grantaire was jealous) and was writing notes on his computer. A recorder was sitting in between them on the desk, and occasionally Valjean would look up from his screen to take a sip of coffee. Grantaire guessed that Valjean had gotten around the same amount of sleep Enjolras had.

“I sure hope so,” Grantaire told him. “I’ve had to tell that story, like, a dozen times already. I’ve gotten pretty good practice.”

Valjean took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. “It was very risky of you to take those notes out of Sheriff Javert’s hands.”

“I know.” Glancing away, Grantaire shifted in his chair. “But I didn’t know what else to do. With those notes, framing Enjolras would be so much easier, and I couldn’t let that happen. He needs all the luck he can get.”

“So do you. Or, at least, you did. They charged Enjolras with kidnapping, which means you’re off the hook for potential aiding and abetting, even though that’s what you did.”

“I would rather be sent to jail for aiding and abetting then have Enjolras sent to jail for kidnapping. That’s a felony.”

“Almost everything he did was a felony. He’s at risk for a long jail sentence no matter what.”

“Yeah, but kidnapping makes it worse.”

Valjean nodded, contemplative. “I know. Believe me, I know. I’ve worked a lot of cases in my days, and this one is certainly a doozy. We’ll need you to testify that you weren’t kidnapped, and once you do, the charge will most likely be dropped. Even still, our goal isn’t to prove him innocent. There’s too much evidence that says otherwise.”

Grantaire’s hands felt clammy. What the hell was this attorney getting at? _Not_ trying to prove Enjolras innocent? That was his goddamn job.

“But Enjolras told me that he was going to plead not guilty,” Grantaire said. “Besides, I thought there wasn’t much evidence against him, other than the bad quality video taken at the West Flamingo Bar.”

Valjean held up his hands as if trying to pacify Grantaire. “That’s not what I meant. There is, in fact, more evidence than you originally thought. I won’t drag you into it, though. This is Enjolras’s journey. But perhaps it would be reassuring for you to hear that regardless of what he is charged with, I’m going to argue that the case should be dropped entirely.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “And you’re going to convince the judge to do this how, exactly?”

“By pointing out one little detail in the Floridian fresh pursuit law. This law dictates the guidelines of tracking a criminal across state lines. However, it also includes a technicality that the officer pursuing and arresting the felon must have witnessed the crime take place first hand. From what I can tell from both of your stories, Javert didn’t see a thing.”

Thinking, Grantaire sat back in his chair. The back cushion stuck into his spine. “The court will acknowledge this and let Enjolras go?”

“It’s written right there in the law.” Valjean turned his computer screen around, showing a PDF document. Grantaire leaned in to read a highlighted part of the text.

" _In the presence of . ._."

A few lines below, there was an in-depth definition of what that phrase meant.

“Javert’s gonna be so pissed.”

Valjean blinked. “Is he, now?”

“He was pretty insistent about tracking us down. He dedicated days to the case, and when he finally got what he wanted, we’re gonna waltz into court and smack this law on the judge’s pedestal. It’ll be sweet.”

Valjean let out a low laugh, one that reminded Grantaire of his grandfather’s. The attorney checked his watch, then told Grantaire, “You can leave now. I’m going to review all the notes I have, and when I’m ready to see you again, I’ll give you a call. Don’t expect it to be for another day or two.”

Grantaire and Valjean both stood, Valjean shaking his hand.

“Should I send Enjolras back in?” Grantaire asked. He hoped Enjolras had gotten some sleep, and Grantaire didn’t want to wake him back up. Maybe Bahorel could distract Valjean for a few minutes so Enjolras could sleep longer.

“No, I’ve decided that I have all the information I need for now. You, Enjolras, and your other friend can leave if you wish. Go out. Have fun. Maybe grab some lunch. I can imagine that recently, Enjolras hasn’t gotten as much fresh air as he might like.”

Grantaire opened the door and threw a hand up to Valjean. “Will do. Thanks for everything, by the way.”

“My pleasure. Talk to you soon. And if you don’t mind, could you send Bahorel in?”

Grantaire blew air out of his nose in a laugh. “Yeah. See you soon.”

 

x x x

 

Since Bahorel was staying there and no one else had a car, Grantaire, Enjolras, and Jehan headed to a nearby diner for lunch. Enjolras hadn’t actually fallen asleep; he’d tried to, but he was too focused on the trial to rest. He’d perked up a bit when Grantaire told him about the fresh pursuit law.

“Valjean told me about that, too,” Enjolras said, stabbing a fork into his salad. “He just wanted to hear someone else’s side of the story to confirm that Javert hadn’t seen anything. But this is good. This is really good.” He paused a moment as if reminded of something. “Valjean also told me that we can’t go back to the apartment today, since the police are there collecting evidence. We’ll have to ask Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta if we can stay the night again.”

“How about you guys stay with me?” Jehan offered. “My apartment is smaller, but the square-feet per person would be greater. Plus, I love cats. I can spend time with them and figure out which one I want to adopt.”

Grantaire forced a piece of his turkey sandwich to go down. The bread was scratchy against his throat, and a painful lump formed there. With Jehan’s words ringing in his ears, he had forgotten to chew all the way. Those cats were the only real connection (and thing in common, for that matter) that Grantaire had with these people, and once the cats were given away, Grantaire wouldn’t have that link anymore. Could he persuade them to like him? He was skilled at making acquaintances, at chatting people up in bars, at coaxing people to come home with him. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d tried to form a permanent relationship. He saw the way these friends interacted with each other, and he wanted that. He wanted that so badly.

“Sounds good,” Enjolras said. “Mind texting Combeferre about the change of plans? My phone is dead since I haven’t charged it in a day.”

“Must suck not being able to use your phone,” Grantaire said before he could stop himself. Goading and sarcasm were forces of habit for him. Enjolras’s eyes widened in apology, but Grantaire cut him off. “I’m kidding. I promise I was just teasing.”

Enjolras looked unsure and even a bit peeved. His eyes lingered a moment on Grantaire’s lopsided grin before flicking back down to his salad.

 

x x x

 

The rest of the day was spent getting Grantaire a WMATA pass so that he could use public transport, and then getting Grantaire a crappy flip phone. (He was _not_ about to let Enjolras buy him a good one). Since Grantaire couldn’t download apps on it, Jehan was nice enough to let Grantaire use their own phone to log onto Instagram and ask Eponine for her phone number, so that Grantaire could have at least one contact. Together, he, Enjolras, and Jehan figured out how to set the phone up, and once it was working, Enjolras logged in all of the ABC members’ numbers, too. Grantaire was woefully impressed. Enjolras had all of them memorized.

“In case I ever get arrested and need to call someone,” Enjolras explained.

Grantaire didn’t know how to reply to that. He didn’t have to, because Jehan elbowed Enjolras in the ribs as a reprimand.

After that, they headed to Jehan’s apartment. It was outside of DC and in Virginia, and when they walked through the door, Grantaire was hit in the face with two very distinct smells: cedar and smoke.

“Is something on fire?” Grantaire asked. He took another deep breath to make sure he wasn’t imagining it.

“No, last night I knocked one of my candles over and it burned part of my blanket, so then—Enjolras, don’t give me that look. I put it out quickly.”

Enjolras was staring at them with his arms crossed over his chest. “You need to chill with the candles. You’re going to get hurt.”

“I was _fine_ ,” Jehan said. “The main smell in here is the incense I burned to cover up the blanket smoke.”

Jehan led the way through the entry hallway and into the living room. Whatever the hell they had said about their apartment being small was bullshit. Yeah, it wasn’t _gigantic_ , but it was certainly roomy. There were floor to ceiling windows on the far wall, and potted plants took up every single windowsill. There were even a dozen hanging plants.

And, of course, there were tons of candles arranged on tables and clustered on the ground. The floor was a deep, rich oak, the walls and cushions were eggshell white, and everything else was plant-green. Crystals filled almost every available table surface. Grantaire felt like he had entered some weird hippy utopia where people lived inside chic trees.

While taking everything in, Grantaire’s eyes soon landed on an overflowing bookcase. He walked over to it and ran a finger over the spines. Shakespeare. Dickinson. Kaur. Poe. He stopped when he reached Tartt and let his finger rest on a copy of _The Secret History_. He hadn’t been able to bring any of his own books from home, obviously. He hadn’t even brought any clothes.

Turning to Jehan, who was busy watering a spindly palm with a tin watering can, Grantaire asked, “Can I borrow this?” He held up the _The Secret History_.

Jehan glanced up and squinted. When they figured out which book it was, they shrugged. “Sure. I mostly read poetry, so feel free to take as many actual novels as you want. But don’t touch my cookbooks. I have special notes in them.”

“Alright. Thanks for letting me borrow some.”

He tucked the book under his arm and moved on, inspecting the rest of the shelf. From what he could tell, Jehan liked a) nature, b) love, and c) death, all of which converged to create a perfect snapshot of early nineteenth-century literature. Fifteen minutes later, after rifling through most of the books to find some genres more up his alley, Grantaire’s arms were full. He was carrying the second _Harry Potter_ , _The Orations of Marcus Tullius Cicero_ (volume three, of course), _Good Omens_ , and a random _Star Trek_ novelization.

He shuffled over to the coffee table and shakily stood on one foot to scoot some candles and crystals out of the way. When a space cleared, Grantaire set his stack down.

“Which one are you going to read first?” Enjolras asked.

Enjolras’s voice was sleepy, and when Grantaire glanced up, he noticed that Enjolras was sitting on the couch, his head resting on his hand. Grantaire had been so immersed in picking books out that he hadn’t noticed Enjolras sit down. Looking around the living room, Grantaire realized Jehan wasn’t even there anymore.

“I’m not sure yet,” Grantaire answered. He gestured to the stack of books like a _Price is Right_ model. “Which one should I choose?”

Enjolras picked his head up and sat forward on the couch to get a better look at the books’ spines. “I don’t know. I’ve only ever read _Harry Potter_.”

Grantaire gave a fake gasp. “Are you telling me you haven’t read _The Orations of Marcus Tullius Cicero_?”

“Unfortunately, no. Have you?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Just not in English. This’ll be a whole new experience.”

Enjolras raised both eyebrows, and his lips perked up. “You know Latin?”

“Yeah. I mean, I haven’t looked at the language in years, but if you gave me a couple hours to review verb charts, I think I’d be okay.”

“My middle and high school didn’t offer Latin. We could choose between French, Spanish, and Chinese. I took French all seven years and then continued taking it in college.”

Grantaire sat down on the edge of the coffee table. He would have sat down in one of the living room’s multiple chairs, but he didn’t want to be that far away from Enjolras. The other alternative would be to sit right next to Enjolras, but Enjolras looked tired enough that he might pass out at any moment. The guy deserved the whole couch if he wanted it.

“I’m definitely assuming you went to a private school, considering that they taught Chinese to a bunch of little snotty middle schoolers.”

“Yeah, I’m a private school kid. But at least Chinese is practical.”

“Latin is practical. How else am I supposed to summon demons? Besides, you shouldn’t be one to brag about practicality. What can you even say in French, other than order a baguette?”

Enjolras laughed, his head lazily lolling back to reveal his neck. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and his soft grin made Grantaire’s stomach lurch. If Grantaire hadn’t been sitting, he might have fallen. This man made his knees weak. Especially like this: unguarded, unheated, uncritical. It was like they were long-time friends. Grantaire wanted moments like this to last forever.

“ _Je peux te dire que lorsque tu as regardé les livres, tu as eu l'air heureux. C'était mignon._ ” Enjolras murmured. His eyes flicked up to the ceiling every few words, and Grantaire watched as they moved back and forth, as if he was trying to visualize the sentence in front of him. The words sounded strange in Enjolras’s voice, but the quiet twists of his tongue made them seem like velvet.

Grantaire would offer to say something in Latin in return, but he’d never learned how to speak it and even if he had, he only remembered vocab words like “behoove” and “slave” and “bloodshed.” Latin was weird like that.

“What did you just say?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras paused a moment, and he looked back at Grantaire. He blinked slowly, like a cat. “I said that you should choose a book and read it to me.”

“Choose a book and read it to you,” Grantaire repeated. “Should I intentionally choose one that you’ll like or one that you’ll hate? You’ve given me so much power. I’ll go mad with it.”

Enjolras gave him an amused smirk. “Just choose something you want to read. How about the first one you picked out? What was that one?”

Grantaire plucked the Donna Tartt novel from the stack. “ _The Secret History_. It’s about a bunch of preppy college students in a Bachchan cult who decide to murder one of their classmates to cover up a different murder they committed.”

Enjolras looked scandalized. “Spoiler alert.”

“Nah. You learn all that info on the first page. I’ve read it a few times, actually. It’s one of my favorites.”

“Then read it to me.” Enjolras scooted over and patted the cushion beside him. “Come here, it’s cold.”

It really wasn’t, but Grantaire certainly wasn’t going to deny Enjolras’s direct request. He sat down next to him and cracked the book open, turning to the first page. Enjolras leaned in and rested his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder. His breathing was soft and warm on Grantaire’s neck, and Grantaire had to fight back a shiver.

“Tired?” Grantaire asked.

“Mmm-hmm,” Enjolras hummed. His settled his head in the crook of Grantaire’s neck, then snuggled closer to his side. “Very.”

“If you’d rather sleep than have me read to you . . .”

“I want to hear your voice.”

Grantaire breathed out slowly, afraid of jostling Enjolras, and looked down at the book. He cleared his throat.

“Okay. Chapter one. ‘Does such a thing as ‘the fatal flaw,’ that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature? I used to think it didn’t. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs. _A moi. L’histoire d’une mes folies_.’”

“To me,” Enjolras translated. His voice dripped with exhaustion and honey, and his eyes fluttered closed with a sigh. “The history of one of my follies.”

Grantaire allowed himself to relax against Enjolras’s side. They fit together perfectly, Enjolras’s head tucked into him. His blond hair tickled Grantaire’s ear, and because they were so close, Grantaire’s senses were filled with the scent of sweet strawberries. The incense-laced apartment seemed far away, like they were the only two members of their own vast universe.

Grantaire smiled at the mess of curls on his shoulder and wished he could lay a gentle kiss on top of them.

 _You make me feel a lot of things._ Was that still true?

After a moment of hesitation, Grantaire let his mouth ghost over the crown of Enjolras’s head. No pressure, no coercion; he wanted Enjolras to feel safe. It was light enough that it could be written off as an accident if it needed to be. To ruin this precious thing, this dear thing, would make Grantaire’s heart fall to pieces.

If Enjolras noticed it, he didn’t say a word.

Grantaire continued reading. “‘My name is Richard Papen . . .’”

 

x x x

 

At some point, Jehan came back into the living room. They were wearing a different gaudy sweater. (What was with this person and bad knitting?)

“Combeferre says—oh, sorry.”

They took a step back into the room they had just come from, but then thought better of it.

“I heard you talking,” they whispered. “I just assumed that meant you two were having a conversation and everyone was awake. How long have you been sitting like this?”

Grantaire glanced down at the page number, then back at Enjolras’s sleeping form. He hadn’t noticed Enjolras fall asleep against him during the interim of forty-seven pages. He also hadn’t noticed how sore his throat was from reading for so long.

“A while, I think,” Grantaire answered.

The sky outside was getting dark. When he looked back at Jehan, Jehan’s eyes were shifting between Enjolras and Grantaire. Marius’s words echoed through Grantaire’s mind, the same words that had almost forced Grantaire to give the ABC a solid talking-to about his nonexistent love life.

“It’s not like we were doing anything,” Grantaire insisted, still whispering. “He was just tired, and he wanted me to read to him.”

Jehan nodded slowly, but something in their eyes told Grantaire that they weren’t entirely convinced. Grantaire wondered if Jehan had some sixth sense that told them about the almost-kiss Grantaire had given Enjolras a little while ago.

“It’s just good that you got him to sleep,” Jehan said. “He’s pretty resistant about taking naps. Or sleeping at all, for that matter. You’ve got a gift.”

“I don’t have a gift.” Grantaire’s face reddened.

Jehan shrugged their shoulders, their oversized sweater bouncing. “Whatever you say. I just came in to tell you guys that while I was writing in my room, Combeferre texted me and said that he, Courfeyrac, and the cats are on their way here right now. I’m going to start dinner. Do you want anything specific?”

“Do you have, like, frozen pizza or something?”

“I only have vegan stuff, and I don’t usually buy faux-vegan foods, so cheese isn’t an option.”

Grantaire grimaced. “I don’t do salads, so don’t make those.”

“Salads aren’t my thing either, so you’re in luck. How about I promise to make something good, and you’ll trust me?”

Grantaire thought for a moment. As long as he got to sit here next to Enjolras’s warm body for as long as possible, he couldn’t care less about what Jehan made. “I trust you.”

“Wonderful.” Jehan smiled. “You’re going to love it.”

 

x x x

 

Grantaire was close to falling asleep himself by the time Combeferre and Courfeyrac arrived. They each held two cat carriers in their hands. When they saw Enjolras asleep on the couch, they nodded in understanding and left for the kitchen, leaving Grantaire and Enjolras alone again. By now, savory aromas were wafting through the entire apartment, and Grantaire’s stomach rumbled.

He should probably wake Enjolras up. That would be the responsible thing to do.

Reluctantly, Grantaire shifted his shoulder and touched Enjolras’s arm.

“Enjolras?”

Slowly, Enjolras’s eyes blinked open. He lifted his head and looked around the room, as if not remembering how he had gotten there. Then his eyes landed on Grantaire.

“Good morning,” Enjolras said. His voice was low with disuse.

“The sun just set. You’ll have to save that ‘good morning’ for some other time, sleepyhead.”

Enjolras sat up completely and rubbed his eyes, and he rested his hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “How long was I asleep?”

Grantaire thought back. “What was the last thing you remember from the book?”

“Richard was looking at a college brochure, I think.”

“That was pretty early on. We can start on that page next time.”

Enjolras’s eyes were still blurry with sleep, but he stood anyway, removing his hand from Grantaire and stretching his arms above his head. A few inches of his shirt rode up, and Grantaire forced his eyes to look away.

Standing as well, Grantaire placing the book on the table. “Jehan made dinner, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac just showed up. We should probably head to the kitchen.”

Enjolras nodded silently and padded his way across the wood. Grantaire followed.

Inside, there were even more plants. Most of them were herbs, but Grantaire could only recognize rosemary. A heavy pot was in the center of the round dining table, where Jehan, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac already were sitting. The empty cat carriers were stacked in the corner of the room, and all four of the cats lay in a clump, their heads pressed together as if in conspiracy.

“I sprinkled some catnip on the floor for them,” Jehan said.

Grantaire snorted softly and sat down next to Courfeyrac, Enjolras sitting on Grantaire’s other side.

“Glad you’ve satisfied them. Is it our turn to be satisfied, too?” Grantaire gestured towards the pot in the center, which he could now see was filled with some type of stew.

Jehan rolled their eyes and started ladling stew into their bowl, then passed the ladle on to Courfeyrac. When Grantaire received it, he made sure not to spill anything.

After everyone filled their bowls, they dug in. The stew was thick and rich, and Grantaire could only imagine how good it would taste if it had been simmering all day long. There were potatoes and carrots—maybe some onions—but the rest was a mystery. All that Grantaire could tell was that it was delicious, and all that he could think was that Jehan should open a restaurant. This meal was so much better than the tasteless turkey sandwich he’d had for lunch.

As they dined, Enjolras told Combeferre and Courfeyrac about his night in jail, the trial, and his meeting with Valjean. When he was done, Combeferre informed him that the rest of the ABC had wanted to stop by Jehan’s apartment to see how Enjolras was, but that Courfeyrac had discouraged it so that Enjolras didn’t feel overwhelmed with people.

“I don’t get overwhelmed,” said Enjolras.

“I beg to differ,” replied Courfeyrac. “You can’t pick up spiders to take them outside. You were jumpy for a week after we watched _Paranormal Activity_. Remember that time I convinced you to go with us to a Bruno Mars concert last fall, and that group of really drunk girls started flirting with you? You didn’t even realize they were flirting until I told you, and then you freaked out and called an Uber to take you back home.”

“I didn’t leave because they were flirting with me, I left because I had a paper due at eight o’clock the next morning, and I’d forgotten to start it.”

Courfeyrac cocked an eyebrow. “Sure. Sure.”

“I’ve spoken in front of thousands of people and have nearly been crushed to death in the middle of a protest; I was composed the entire time. I don’t get overwhelmed.”

“You’re an exception to the rule,” Combeferre piped in. “An anomaly. You’re perfectly comfortable when you’re in danger, and you’re on edge when you’re safe.”

Enjolras leaned back in his chair, tucking one of his legs under him. “There’s nothing safe about spiders.”

“Or ghosts, apparently,” Grantaire laughed. “We should have a _Paranormal Activity_ movie marathon.”

“I own them all,” Combeferre said excitedly. “We can invite everyone over to our apartment sometime.”

Mentioning the apartment seemed to sober up the room. Enjolras’s face grew stern.

“I’m sorry for making our apartment temporarily off-limits while the police are there. I’m just glad that the cats weren’t home when Javert showed up, or else we’d be dealing with some pretty bad evidence against us.”

Jehan shook their head. “No, you should get arrested more often. I love having everybody staying here. It’s like a sleepover but better because there are cats. Who doesn’t want that?”

“Anyone in their right mind,” answered Combeferre, but he had an amused grin on his face. “Let’s not talk about the cat heist or the arrest for the rest of the night, okay? Let’s plan this awesome _Paranormal Activity_ marathon instead.”

Enjolras groaned and pouted. “I’m not afraid of scary movies. You guys are wasting your time.”

“If you aren’t scared, let’s watch _The Blair Witch Project_ tonight, then save _Paranormal Activity_ for when everyone can join,” Jehan suggested. “You’re cool with that, right, Enjolras?”

Enjolras leveled his gaze with Jehan’s. “That’s perfect with me.”

“We’ll have to crowd around my computer since I don’t own a TV.”

Grantaire had never heard of _The Blair Witch Project_ , but he figured it was another scary movie. Back in St. Petersburg, he and Eponine would watch scary movies together all the time. It had become sort of a tradition, and thinking about it made his chest ache. He missed her.

“Could I be excused really fast?” Grantaire asked.

Everyone nodded, and Grantaire left the table and went into the living room. Once there, he took out his new flip phone and toggled down to Eponine’s number.

After it rang a few times, she finally picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Eponine. It’s me.”

“Jesus, Grantaire. You need to stop using random ass phones. How am I supposed to keep in contact with you?”

Grantaire could tell from her voice that she was only joking. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

It was silent for a few beats. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound so sure, ‘Ponine.”

“I said I was fine. I am. It’s just . . . I was thinking about what you said, about coming up to DC with you.”

Grantaire held his breath. “Have you made a decision?”

“I think I’m going to move up there.”

“Really?” Grantaire grinned and pumped a fist in the air. “Oh, man. This is going to be so great.”

“It’s not going to be that easy,” Eponine quickly cut in. “I need to figure out how to get Gavroche from my parents, and then I need to enroll him in a DC school, and then I have to deal with getting a job there, and then I have to pack up all my shit, and besides, I can’t actually leave until the end of the month.”

“The end of the . . . ?” Oh. “That’s when the apartment’s contract is up.”

“Yeah,” Eponine sighed. “And Montparnasse is gonna be pissed as hell when he finds out that _both_ of his roommates have suddenly ditched him.”

“You haven’t told him yet?”

“No fucking way. He’ll act like a drama queen—you know, all ‘woe is me’ shit.”

“Well, I can start looking for apartments and potential jobs for you, if it makes you feel better. Oh, you know what would make you feel better? The day before you leave, you should make a big deal of quitting your two jobs. Like, curse some rude customer out. Something big. Something indulgent.”

“Sticking it to the man. I like the way you think.”

Grantaire leaned against the wall, laying his head against it. “But you _are_ coming up to DC, right? It’s official?”

“Yes, R. It’s official. I’ve talked with Gav, too. He’d not too psyched about leaving his friends, but he doesn’t want to be with our parents anymore. I think this is a good call for him.”

Faintly, Grantaire could hear dishes being collected and put into the sink. Combeferre was saying something about fish, and Courfeyrac was telling him about Aquaman.

He nestled the phone closer against his ear. “I’m so glad for the both of you. But—I kind of have to go now? I’ll call you tomorrow, I promise. And I’m ninety-nine percent sure this is my final phone. You can keep this number in your contacts.”

“Good to know. Talk to you later, Grantaire. Stay safe and don’t be a dumbass.”

He smiled wide. “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” she said, then hung up.

He shut the phone with a satisfying _snap._

“Who was that?”

Grantaire turned to see Enjolras standing in the doorway of the kitchen, his lips still in a pout. Grantaire wondered if he did that intentionally or if it just happened naturally. Maybe it was the gods subconsciously forcing him to make his lips even more plush than usual.

“That was Eponine, my roommate. She just told me she’s gonna live in DC with me.”

Enjolras’s pout got poutier. “Oh. She’s your—okay. It’s nice that she’s coming here.”

Grantaire nodded eagerly and slipped the phone into his pocket. “Hell yeah it is. She’s fantastic. Not sure if you two share any common interests, but I can’t imagine you won’t like her.”

Enjolras let out a halting laugh. “I’m willing to bet we share at least one common interest.”

Grantaire smiled, walking over to him. “There’s my optimist. Are we gonna start that witch movie soon?”

“Once the table is cleared.” Enjolras turned to head back into the kitchen, but then he paused and looked over his shoulder, back at Grantaire. “I’m happy Eponine’s arriving soon. You deserve that. I never meant to take you away from your life. You left everything behind for me, and all I gave you in return was the world’s worst road trip. You deserve to have a piece of your life back.”

Grantaire blinked in surprise at the sudden change in tone. “I . . . thanks. But I should be the one thanking you.”

Enjolras gave him a quick, close-mouthed smile and went to duck into the kitchen again, but Grantaire grabbed his arm before he could.

“Enjolras, you gave me so much more than the world’s worst road trip. You gave me—I don’t know—hope. Which sounds lame as fuck now that I’m saying it out loud. But last night, when we were sitting in that cafe . . .” _I wanted to kiss you_. _I wanted to confess everything to you_. “ . . . You mentioned that I could do anything I set my mind to. And, if I’m being honest, I don’t really believe that. But I’m willing to try. Even for a little while. So, since I’m staying in DC for the long haul, I’m gonna try and get my shit together.”

Enjolras’s face softened. “That’s good, Grantaire.”

Letting go of Enjolras’s arm, Grantaire rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe . . . maybe you could help? If you want? I’m sure you’ll be busy with the trial and school, but I need help figuring out where to live when I move out of your apartment. I was hoping you guys might know good neighborhoods, ones in quality school districts.”

“You know it doesn’t matter what school district you live in to attend college, right?”

“No, no,” Grantaire laughed. “It’s for Eponine’s younger brother, Gavroche. He’s ten.”

Almost immediately, the soft curves of Enjolras face became hard. “Right. Well, Combeferre might be a better person to ask, since he tutors kids. I thought you were talking about finishing your college education.”

Grantaire looked away and shrugged. “No art school is going to want a dropout who hasn’t even picked up a paintbrush in a year.”

It was silent for a few painful seconds. Then, Enjolras put a hand on his shoulder, the soft look on his face returning. “That’s bullshit.”

Grantaire was bewildered at Enjolras’s statement. “But it’s true.”

“No, it’s bullshit. Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Say that it’s bullshit.”

“It’s bullshit?”

Enjolras shook his head. “With more conviction.”

As much as Grantaire liked Enjolras’s hand on his shoulder, he leaned away. “This is stupid.”

“Grantaire.”

“It _is_ stupid.”

“It is not.”

“It is.”

“Say it.”

“Okay, you know what? Fine.” Grantaire took a deep breath and stared into Enjolras’s eyes. “It’s bullshit. It’s fucking bullshit. I can totally get into art school because my art is good. I’m talented, and any college that doesn’t want me is a bad, bullshitty college.”

The corner of Enjolras’s mouth turned up. “That’s more like it.”

He reached over and gave Grantaire’s shoulder one more squeeze before heading back into the kitchen. Grantaire watched as he left, his stomach happily buzzing with warmth. (Some of it from the stew, but most of it from Enjolras.)

Maybe he could apply to college again. This was a fresh start, right? He really did enjoy art, when it looked good. He had found other outlets to let out his stress, like boxing and dancing and, yeah, drinking. But he loved the way a brush felt in his hands, the way paint spread across a canvas, the way colors mixed and burst together.

What he loved the most about art was completing a piece. He could box and drink as much as he wanted, but he didn’t have anything to _show_ for it, unless you included a broken nose and a sad liver. But a painting? That was something he could look at and see as an accomplishment. There was something amazing—and relieving—about it.

He was going to go back to school. And any college that didn’t want him could suck his dick.

Grantaire looked back at the kitchen door, hearing his friends' voices beyond it.

“It’s bullshit,” he whispered to himself.

The words felt good on his lips. He pushed open the door and went inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update coming next sunday! check out my tumblr enjolryas for questions/updates
> 
> no angst in this one because our boys deserve to be happy. they've been through too much shit already. can't speak for the next chapters, but at least this one had some relief. 
> 
> also: I changed the Floridian fresh pursuit law. I've replaced it with the Federation of American Scientists' fresh persuit law so...there's that. It's an AU, let it be. And hopefully my French is correct.
> 
> EDIT: update will NOT be next sunday!! it will be next thursday. sorry!


	9. Chapter 9

With Jehan’s laptop propped up on the coffee table and everyone crowded on the couch, they watched _The Blair Witch Project_. Grantaire had a pretty neutral reaction to what was happening; sure, it is psychologically unsettling, but he’d seen pretty much every good-quality (and bad-quality) horror movie on the planet. There wasn’t much that could scare him anymore.

Sitting next to Grantaire was Jehan, who seemed to be having a pretty good time as well. In contrast, Combeferre and Courfeyrac were holding onto each other at the end of the couch, Courfeyrac sitting completely on top of the guy. If Grantaire had to guess, it was probably just an excuse so they could be close to each other.

Grantaire wished he had an excuse to be close to Enjolras. Their sides were pressed together, just like they had been when he was reading the book. To the naked eye, Enjolras seemed to be a pillar of calmness, his face placid and his lap covered by Patriot, but Grantaire could feel how tense he actually was. It was the only indication that he might be scared.

Sighing, Grantaire sat back against the couch and ran his hand over Hamlet’s fur. He could feel the vibrations of the animal’s purring, and Hamlet melted against Grantaire with each exhale. The cat had become fairly attached to Grantaire over the past few days, and this seemed like the final straw. Grantaire didn’t want to face giving him up.

 

x x x

 

Two hours later, the movie was over. Combeferre held his face in his hands.

“I can’t believe they ended it like that!” he cried, shaking his head. “What happened? What did I just watch? Who ends a movie like that?”

Jehan cackled and elbowed him. “That’s the mystery of it!”

Shaking his head, Combeferre stood. “They should get an award or something. But I still can’t believe it. I’m leaving. I’m going. Goodbye.”

He tramped across the floor and went into the bathroom, shutting the door with fake anger. Jehan was still vaguely laughing, and Courfeyrac still looked spooked from the film.

Enjolras stood and took a deep breath. He stared pointedly at Jehan and Courfeyrac. “That movie wasn’t scary, but I think you broke ‘Ferre.”

“He’ll be alright,” Courfeyrac reassured him. “He just won’t sleep for a few days.”

Grantaire furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and tried not to focus on how cold his side was without Enjolras’s presence. “I thought Combeferre liked horror movies? He was the one who came up with the idea to have a _Paranormal Activity_ movie marathon.”

“He _does_ like horror movies,” Enjolras said. “He’s just terrified of them.”

The bathroom door opened, and Combeferre skittered back in. He looked flushed. “Wouldn’t it be so funny if I walked out of the bathroom, and all of you were missing because you wanted to pull a prank on me? I would have freaked out.”

Jehan stood, shutting their laptop and tucking it under their arm. “We totally should have done that.”

“I would normally agree,” Courfeyrac said, “but I’m the one who’s going to be sharing a bed with him, and I don’t want him to be any more high-strung than he usually is after watching a horror movie. I don’t want to be woken up with a black eye again.”

“That happened _once_. And your eye wasn’t even bruised.”

“Once is too many times.”

“Guys,” Enjolras interrupted. He was looking down at his phone, his face illuminated from its glowing screen. “I just got an email from Valjean requesting that I meet with him at eight tomorrow morning. It’s already past midnight. Do you guys mind if I go to bed?” He paused a moment, looking around. “ . . . Where are we sleeping?”

Jehan went off to their room, and when they returned, they were dragging a beanbag behind them.

“Here,” Jehan huffed, releasing it from their grip. “One of you can have this, another can take the couch, and the other two can share the bed.”

There was a long pause as everyone went through the options in their heads.

“Jehan, are you not sleeping in your bed?” Enjolras asked.

Courfeyrac made an _Aha!_ sound. “I knew it. You don’t sleep. You’re a vampire.”

“I’m a witch,” Jehan corrected, “and I sleep on the floor. It grounds me.”

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow. “We’re on the third floor, Jehan. You can’t ground yourself here.”

“Let me live my life.”

Shaking his head in amusement, Courfeyrac got up. “I’m assuming Combeferre and I are sharing the bed, then, unless our two young lovers would prefer it?” He sent a knowing look Enjolras and Grantaire’s way.

Grantaire’s face heated up. “We’re not—”

“That’s not what we—”

“You did it once before. I’m just giving you another opportunity . . .” Courfeyrac’s voice trailed off.

Jehan grabbed the beanbag again and, grunting, swung it towards Courfeyrac. It his Courfeyrac’s torso with a slam.

“Bad! Don’t give them any ideas—this is my apartment!”

Courfeyrac stumbled backwards and burst into laughter.

“You don’t even use your bed! What does it matter to you?” Courfeyrac cried.

It looked like Jehan was about to swing the beanbag back around when Enjolras cut in.

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac are staying in the bedroom; Grantaire and I are in the living room. Jehan, pick some floor space to sleep on. I don’t care. But I’m going to bed in the next ten minutes, and I want it to be quiet and orderly when I do.”

Enjolras’s brow was set. He wasn’t messing around.

Jehan slowly let the beanbag drop to the ground. “Okay. You’re right. I’ll grab some blankets for you guys.”

They went off again, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac started milling about, getting ready for bed. Everyone seemed to know the layout of the apartment pretty well, so Grantaire followed them around so he didn’t have to ask where anything was. He didn’t even ask for a change of clothes, but that was mostly because Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac didn’t either. But that was okay. They would be back at the regular apartment tomorrow, and they could change then.

Or, at least, everyone else could. Grantaire didn’t have any clothes of his own. He would have to keep borrowing stuff until he found a job and could afford more, or until Eponine showed up with their possessions at the end of the month. Whichever came first. Who knew what would happen—she might not be able to get custody of Gavroche, or Grantaire might not be able to find an apartment or a job. He didn’t have much time.

“Enjolras?” he asked after everyone was settled down for the night. Jehan had opted to sleep on the bedroom floor, so it was just the two of them in the living room. “Can I ask you a stupid question?”

Enjolras looked down at Grantaire. Somehow, Grantaire had managed to convince Enjolras to take the couch; he deserved it.

“Of course,” Enjolras replied. “But I doubt it’s stupid.”

“You haven’t even heard it yet. I was going to ask what the date was.”

Raising an eyebrow, a small smile formed on his face. Enjolras answered, “The twenty-sixth. Actually, I guess it’s the twenty-seventh now.”

Grantaire immediately sat up. That was exactly what he’d feared. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?” Enjolras lifted himself up on his elbows, his eyes concerned.

“The contract for our apartment ends on the thirtieth. I have three days to figure out the whole Eponine-moving-here situation. I’m so fucked.”

Enjolras looked away for a moment, then glanced down again. “I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

“No. Our landlord doesn’t do one-month leases. The lease is six-months, minimum. Iif she doesn’t move out this month, she won’t be able to leave until December.”

“Don’t the both of you need to be there to tell your landlord that you’re moving? You kind of just left her in the dust.”

Grantaire winced. He really had left her.

“It’s her name on the lease,” he told Enjolras. “I don’t have to be there.”

“Ah. I see.”

“This is so useless anyway. I can’t possibly do everything in three days.”

“Maybe not, but you can certainly get started. If being with Eponine is important to you, you’ll figure something out.” Enjolras paused again, not meeting Grantaire’s eyes. “I can help. If you want.”

“No way, Enjolras. I’ve already taken advantage of your hospitality. I’m living with you, I got a new phone from you, and—hell—I’m even wearing your clothes right now. I don’t need your help with this, too. You have enough shit on your plate as it is.”

“All I have is the trial, and assuming I’m let off the hook like Valjean thinks I’ll be, I don’t have much else work to do. Let me help you.”

Grantaire tried to glare at him, but he just couldn’t. Enjolras only meant well.

“I don’t want to be the ABC’s next charity case.”

At this, Enjolras sat up fully and finally looked at him. “You’re not a charity case.”

“It sure sounds like it. Why else would you help me?”

Enjolras’s mouth was half open as if he couldn’t believe what Grantaire was saying. “Because we’re friends? At least, I thought we were. Unless you have some other shitty news for me.”

“Of course we’re friends, Enjolras. And what ‘other’ shitty news? Have you changed your mind about letting me stay with you?” Grantaire asked.

With the look Enjolras was giving him—half frustrated, half hurt—Grantaire wanted to punch himself in the face for potentially ruining their entire relationship. He watched Enjolras’s eyes, but Enjolras gave him nothing.

When Enjolras finally spoke, his voice was rough. “Stay with me for as long as you want. Just consider letting me help you, okay?”

This time, it was Grantaire who drew his eyes away.  “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

Then, bringing the blanket to his chin, Grantaire turned on his side and burrowed into the beanbag. He wished Hamlet were with him.

 

x x x

 

When Grantaire awoke, Enjolras was gone. Judging from the amount of sunlight coming into the room, it was far past eight. Grantaire rubbed sleep out of his eyes and grimaced as his neck pinched. He must have slept on it funny.

Grantaire found Courfeyrac nursing a cup of Starbucks coffee at the kitchen table. When Courfeyrac noticed him standing in the doorway, he leapt up and grinned.

“I called in sick to work.”

Grantaire paused momentarily. “Uh. Okay. Do you know if Jehan has, like, cereal or something?”

Courfeyrac was already retching a cabinet open and pulling out some all-natural cereal, then he raced over to the fridge and grabbing some almond milk. He spoke rapidly.

“I was wondering when you’d wake up. I got up when Enjolras did, and we talked and agreed that we should keep the cats here for now, just in case the police pop by our own apartment again. Anyway, I’m interning at this fashion company. All I do is filing—it’s the most boring thing ever.  I literally finish everything within a couple of hours and then just sit there for the rest of the day. So, lucky for you, I’m skipping. I want to take you shopping.”

Courfeyrac ended this declaration with a smile. Grantaire had no idea how to reply, but he didn’t have to because Courfeyrac was already shoving the bowl across the table, handing him a spoon, and forcing him into a chair.

“Eat up. We have loads of work to do.”

Grantaire was _almost_ speechless, but he never really could shut up, could he?

“Why on earth are you taking me shopping? Shopping for what? Groceries, so that Jehan finally has some junk food in their house—like a normal human being?”

“I wish. But no. You need clothes.”

“I have clothes. I just don’t have them with me right now.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m taking you shopping. You can’t just keep wearing Enjolras’s stuff.”

Grantaire hesitated. “While we’re on that topic . . . I need to talk to you about the whole Enjolras thing. We aren’t together. Period. He doesn’t like me like that.”

Courfeyrac looked confused at first, but then he composed himself. “‘Kay.”

“So I’d appreciate it if you stopped insinuating that we that we slept together.”

“Alright. Sorry. I thought it was clear that—nevermind.”

Grantaire took a bite of cereal. It tasted like tree bark.

“Grantaire, I thought you two liked each other.”

“He doesn’t like me.”

Grantaire could practically see the gears turning behind Courfeyrac’s eyes.

“Does that mean _you_ like him?” Courfeyrac asked.

Keeping his focus on his cereal, Grantaire answered, “I don’t know.”

“Oh, you totally do! You like Enjolras. That’s so sweet. You guys would be great together.”

“No, we wouldn’t.” Grantaire shook his head, as if making a physical movement might convince Courfeyrac to drop the subject. “Have you seen him? He could get anyone on the planet. All he would have to do is ask.”

“First of all, don’t reduce my best friend to only his looks. Second, he doesn’t want anyone else. Believe me, we’ve tried setting up some dating app profiles for him before. He won’t have it.”

“And you think I’m somehow different than all those other potential online dates? At least dating apps have algorithms to set people up. Enjolras and I were literally thrown together by chance.”

“You know what a synonym for chance is?”

“I don’t know. Coincidence?”

“Fate.”

Grantaire snorted. “Uh-huh. Because fate is definitely a thing.”

“It definitely is. I’m glad we agree.” He smiled like he had just won something. Grantaire couldn’t believe it. “Anyway, I’m taking you clothes shopping whether you like it or not.”

Managing to swallow a cardboard bite of cereal, Grantaire thanked any higher power listening that Courfeyrac had changed the subject, but then he immediately retracted that thanks when he realized what the topic had been changed to.

“I don’t have any money,” Grantaire protested.

“You can pay me back. You seem like a legit dude.”

“Thanks?”

There was that whole pity thing again. Maybe Enjolras was being genuine about his wanting to help Grantaire. Maybe the ABC’s application ranked people on how nice they were, and so the entire friend group—especially Courfeyrac—was insanely nice. But when Grantaire really thought about it, he doubted the ABC even had an application. If there was an application, that meant people could get denied, and Grantaire knew that Enjolras would never deny someone from coming to an ABC meeting.

Courfeyrac took a swig of his Starbucks drink—he must have already been out of the apartment that morning—and smacked his lips approvingly.

“Eat quick, Grantaire. I’m so excited to pick stuff out for you.”

 

x x x

 

Later that afternoon, Grantaire and Courfeyrac stumbled back into the apartment—their _actual_ apartment, now that the police were gone—and let their shopping bags fall to the ground. The stairs had not been friendly to them. Regardless, their shopping spree was over, and Grantaire was free.

Not that Grantaire didn’t like spending time with Courfeyrac. That wasn’t true at all. As Grantaire soon found out, Courfeyrac was an excellent conversationalist and managed to even help an old lady choose between two dresses. He had that same sense of integrity that Enjolras had, but if Enjolras wore it on his sleeve, Courfeyrac wore it like a party hat. If Grantaire was forced to be stuck in an elevator with someone, he would have to choose Courfeyrac. That guy never ran out of things to do.

(Grantaire, of course, was against being stuck in an elevator with Enjolras. But that was a separate matter altogether.)

Groaning, Courfeyrac fell face-first onto the couch. The blanket was still on the floor where Grantaire had left it when Javert had shown up. The rest of the apartment looked like it had before, which lead Grantaire to believe the police hadn’t been too destructive in their search. He hoped they hadn’t ruined Enjolras’s array of notes any more than Javert had.

Courfeyrac mumbled something into the cushions, but Grantaire couldn’t hear.

“What?”

Courfeyrac lifted his head. “I said, ‘Success.’”

Looking down at the half a dozen bags, Grantaire had to agree. Had they needed to buy all of those? Absolutely not. But had they done a good job emptying out the five stores they’d gone to? Absolutely. Still, Grantaire still felt bad.

It wasn’t like Grantaire didn’t like the stuff. If he were being honest, he _loved_ it. He actually looked put together, which he couldn’t have said before. He just felt like he didn’t deserve all of this. Any of it.

“Put something on,” insisted Courfeyrac. “I didn’t walk up those stairs for you to just stare at the bags. You have to actually wear the stuff.”

“What do you think I should wear first, then?”

Courfeyrac hummed in thought and pulled himself to his feet, making his way over and rifling through the bags. He pulled out a green button-up and a pair of black jeans, then shoved them into Grantaire’s hands and shooed him off towards the bathroom to change.

It felt heavenly to finally get his gross, days-old pants off and replace them with clean ones. The button-up shirt was nice too, but it wasn’t anything like wearing one of Enjolras’s t-shirts. Grantaire folded the t-shirt carefully after taking it off, even if it was dirty and going to be tossed into the laundry anyway.

When Grantaire emerged, Courfeyrac looked up from his phone and grinned.

“You’re hot stuff,” Courfeyrac said, walking over and undoing another one of Grantaire’s buttons. He moved onto the sleeves and began rolling them, and when he was done, he gave Grantaire a sheepish grin. “I don’t think you’d appreciate my sticking my hand down your pants. Tuck your shirt in.”

Grantaire laughed and did so, just like he had seen Courfeyrac do the day before.

“I appreciate it,” Grantaire said. “For everything, really. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. I promise.”

Courfeyrac stole a quick glance at his phone. “I’m sure you’ll score a job soon.”

“Unlikely, dude.”

“Don’t speak so soon.”

Courfeyrac’s lips twitched like he was trying to hold back a smile. It must have been really hard to do since he almost always had one glued to his face. Before Grantaire could ask what he meant, Courfeyrac bent down and picked up the rest of the bags. He lugged them to Enjolras’s room and set them down just inside the door.

When he came back into the living room, he pointed at Grantaire. “I know you’re going to say something about not wanting to sleep in Enjolras’s room—which is fine, whatever—but we can’t just have your clothes laying around the apartment. There has to be some organization.”

Grantaire wanted to protest. He really, really did. But Courfeyrac had a point, and assuming things went to plan, Grantaire would be out of the apartment in three days anyway. Of course, securing a job and an apartment within three days was impossible.

 _This is a fresh start_ , he said begrudgingly to himself _, so start acting like it_.

“It’s cool,” he told Courfeyrac. “Enjolras doesn’t seem like the person who would mind me keeping stuff in there.”

“He won’t mind whatsoever. I give you my word.” He raised three fingers like a Boy Scout. “Now let me grab my laptop from my room and we can start apartment hunting.”

When Courfeyrac came back, they sat together on the couch. Courfeyrac opened his laptop and quickly found a real-estate website.

“Let’s see. . . . We can make this process easier by narrowing down our search. How about we look for a one bedroom on the outskirts of DC, and if that doesn’t work, we can change the parameters.”

“We actually need a two bedroom,” Grantaire corrected. “But being outside of DC is fine, as long as the school district is good.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“My roommate Eponine and her little brother Gavroche. In theory, they’ll be moving up here from Florida in three days.”

Courfeyrac typed the search requirements in, setting the price to the lowest range. “Now that you mention it, Enjolras did say something about ‘three days’ this morning. All foreboding-like. He’s graceful and elegant a third of the time, intense and unstoppable another third of the time, and awkward and moody the rest of the time. He was having one of this awkward and moody phases this morning.”

“Was he doing alright?” Grantaire asked. He watched as Courfeyrac scrolled through the different apartment listings. “We were talking last night after everyone went to bed, and the conversation turned bad pretty fast. I’m not even sure what we were arguing about. Like—”

Grantaire paused and pointed to one of the listings, which Courfeyrac clicked on. It was fairly cheap and had two bedrooms, but was a good way out of the city; they would definitely need a car. Eponine would be driving hers up, though.

“Like,” Grantaire began again, “we were arguing about nothing, but it wasn’t just _nothing_. It was like we were arguing about something else. Something unsaid.”

Courfeyrac’s finger hovered over the trackpad. With his lips pressed into a firm line, he looked almost in pain. “Grantaire. Please tell me. What was the argument about, exactly?”

“He wanted to help me find a job and an apartment. I didn’t want his help.”

Courfeyrac gave him a look. “You’re letting _me_ help you.”

“This is different. When Enjolras offered, it didn’t seem like he actually wanted to help. Well, he obviously did want to help, but there was just something about him. . . . I don’t know. He seemed off.”

“He seemed off this morning, too.”

“Think it’s because of the trial?”

Courfeyrac let out an extravagant sigh. “Maybe, Grantaire. But I know him, and I know that he never lets stuff like this—official things, like rallies and meetings and interviews—get under his skin. You have to understand that about him. Whatever he’s going through right now, it’s not because of the trial. It’s way more personal than that.”

He was looking at Grantaire intently, like he wanted to communicate something but couldn’t put it into words. Grantaire hoped Enjolras was okay. Enjolras deserved the world, and if he was worried about something, Grantaire wanted to fix it.

Racking his mind, Grantaire tried to think about what could possibly be bothering Enjolras.

“The cats,” he finally decided. “He’s worried about the cats.”

Courfeyrac stared blankly at Grantaire for a moment. He gave Grantaire a closed-mouth smile. “Oh, sure. That’s totally it.”

“Even if they have to stay at Jehan’s place, we can always visit them. Besides, the trial should be over soon. We can bring the cats back then.”

Courfeyrac wasn’t even looking at him anymore. He was busying himself searching through the apartments again.

“I liked the last one,” Grantaire objected.

“It wasn’t pet-friendly.”

The cats. Of course. If Grantaire could somehow manage to stay friends with these people, maybe he could swindle them for Hamlet. Courfeyrac knew what was up.

They spent the rest of the afternoon like that, sitting on the couch and saving different apartments until they had an entire list of them. Most of them were shitty as hell, but they had plumbing and water and electricity, so why complain? They were reasonably priced, too. Once Grantaire found a job for himself and for Eponine, they could manage to scrape by. He hoped they wouldn’t have to work too many jobs so they would be able to spend time with Gavroche. Also so Grantaire would have time to attend college classes. He wouldn’t let his promise to Enjolras go to waste.

 

x x x

 

It was almost dark by the time Enjolras and Combeferre got home. Grantaire and Courfeyrac had already found a great apartment—okay, well, “great” probably wasn’t the best term to use to describe it, but it didn’t look like it was infested with mice, and it was in a good school district. That was all that really mattered.

The only problem was that Grantaire still didn’t have a job yet, and he hadn’t found one for Eponine, either. Regardless of how “great” the apartment was, nothing mattered if they couldn’t pay for it.

Luckily, since he wasn’t in St. Petersburg anymore, he wouldn’t be paying the rent at the end of the month. That meant he had some money saved, and it also meant that Montparnasse would _finally_ have to pay rent himself. (Grantaire and Eponine had been covering him for weeks.) Since it was nearing the end of the month, his old boss from the graphic design company he used to work for would also be sending him his final paycheck.

So, the new apartment’s rent would be covered for the first month. But in order to pay rent the rest of the time, he needed a job. And he needed one now.

Much to his dismay, job hunting was probably going to be terrible. Grantaire hadn’t even bothered to call his old boss to tell her he was never showing up again, so she was unlikely to be a good reference. Maybe Enjolras was right. Maybe Grantaire really did need all the help he could get.

But Grantaire was definitely not going to ask Enjolras about helping him now.

When Enjolras and Combeferre had finally come home, Enjolras barely even acknowledged Grantaire before making a bee-line to his room. Enjolras glanced down at the shopping bags, and after throwing a quick look over his shoulder at Courfeyrac, pushed the bags further into the room with his foot and shut the door.

Grantaire blew out a breath. “Someone’s in a rush.”

“Don’t mind him,” Combeferre said. “He’s writing down all the notes he remembers from his meeting with Valjean. He doesn’t want to forget the proceedings.”

“The meeting lasted that long? It’s nearly six p.m.”

Combeferre shook his head. “It lasted until four. I left work early and picked him up for an early dinner since he had missed lunch. That’s where we’ve been. Lucky for you—” He held up a bag. “—We brought home leftovers.”

Courfeyrac let out a _whoop_ and made his way over to Combeferre. He planted a kiss on Combeferre’s cheek before taking the bag from his hands.

“Let’s dine, Grantaire. We’ve worked hard today.”

 

x x x

 

It was Chinese food, and Grantaire was eternally grateful. They ate together on the couch, just him and Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and they discussed the potential apartment and Enjolras’s meeting with Valjean.

“Enjolras couldn’t tell me everything since most of it’s confidential,” Combeferre said. “But you won’t ever believe what he _did_ tell me.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes widened, and he bit into a dumpling.

Speaking for the both of them, Grantaire asked, “What did he say?”

Combeferre sat up straighter and adjusted his glasses. “You know that bed and breakfast you two stayed at?”

“Solstice Bed and Breakfast, yeah.”

“And the host, Fantine?”

“Yeah.”

It looked like Combeferre was going to explode with anticipation, and he was the one who already _knew_ the information. “Okay, okay. Get this. Valjean knows her. When he was younger, his firm used to send him around the country. Well, one of those times, he got sent to North Carolina. He worked a civil case for her.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened until they matched Courfeyrac’s.

“No way,” he said.

“Yes way,” Combeferre answered. “But it gets so much better. The case was a custody battle. Fantine and her husband were fighting over who got to keep their daughter, and Fantine won. She raised this girl amazingly well—made her study hard, too. And guess where that girl goes to college now.”

Grantaire and Courfeyrac were leaning in, their food forgotten.

“Where?” they both asked at the same time.

“Georgetown.”

Courfeyrac let out a gasp. “No way. Who is she? Do we know her?”

“We most certainly do. Or, at least, we know _of_ her.” Combeferre was grinning like a madman by now. “She was Valjean’s teaching assistant last year.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes widened even more. “Oh my God. No fucking way. It’s Cosette? Marius’s Cosette? That girl he’s obsessed with but can’t figure out how to ask out?”

“Whoa—back up,” Grantaire said, putting his hands up. “Marius mentioned a girl to me yesterday. Are you saying Fantine’s daughter is the same girl?”

Combeferre smiled. “It’s a small world.”

“It’s _Cosette_!” yelled Courfeyrac. “We have to tell Marius. He can finally have a reason to talk to her.”

“Marius—oh my God,” Grantaire laughed. “He asked me yesterday to give him romance advice. Because I’m such a romantic, apparently. Does he think I seduce everyone I meet? That no one is left untarnished? He wanted to know all my secrets.”

“And what are your secrets, O Great Seducer?” Courfeyrac goaded. “How might mere mortals like us aspire to become a deity of seduction like you?”

Grantaire continued laughing and stood, ready to give his proclamation. “The first rule to become a deity of seduction is to make a name for yourself, and the only way to do that is to get the finest people to fall for you, lead them on—and just when they think they’ll finally get somewhere—you cut them off.” Grantaire made a slicing motion with his hand.

Courfeyrac cheered and clapped. “Give us guidance, O Great Seducer.”

Grantaire’s eyes landed on the blanket, still in a bundle on the floor. Grabbing it from the ground, he cloaked it around his shoulders and continued.

“It is my divine right to trick as many people as I wish, and my divine right to break every heart I can wrap my hands around. Hear ye, youthful beauties: witness my extraordinary wit and charm. May you cry when I leave you.” Grantaire flexed his right arm and wagged his eyebrows. “No more will these arms envelope you. Alone, you’ll be forced to face the truth: I’m too good, and you’re delusional.”

At this point, both Courfeyrac and Combeferre were cackling. Admittedly, Grantaire’s own cheeks hurt from grinning so much—something he hadn’t even realized he was doing.

“But get ready to listen with your mortal ears,” he stage-whispered, moving backwards and sweeping the train of his makeshift-cape behind him. “There still remains hope.”

He retreated further, ready to spin around so his cape could wave around, when his back hit something solid and warm. Turning, Grantaire came face to face with Enjolras.

“Busy, I see,” Enjolras said.

Without stopping the momentum of the scene, Grantaire stood on his tiptoes, wrapped an arm around Enjolras’s shoulder, and allowed the blanket to drape around both of them

“Only busy with love,” Grantaire said. “Courf—make sure to take notes. Marius will thank me later.”

Grantaire hoped Enjolras wouldn’t punch him in the face and unwrapped himself from the blanket, leaving Enjolras standing by himself, swathed in fleece.

Grantaire cleared his throat. “Lesson number one: the approach. Find common ground to start your conversation so that it doesn’t seem obvious what you’re about to do. For example, observe our model here.”

Grantaire pointed at Enjolras, whose nose scrunched up in distaste, but the corner of his mouth was upturned, too. Grantaire took that as a good sign.

“If I want to approach him successfully, I could start out with a question. Asking for a question like, ‘What time is it?’ is a bad move. You want something more personal—something only they can answer.”

Grantaire stepped up to Enjolras as suavely as possible, which wasn’t easy given the fact that Grantaire’s chest was buzzing with bumblebee valentines. The way the blanket was draped around Enjolras’s shoulders made his hair poof out, and Grantaire could only imagine waking up to the same imagine: Enjolras wrapped in a sheet, his hair tousled, his eyes amused.

Grantaire quickly pushed the image down.

“Are you in Dr. Mandry’s astronomy class?” Grantaire asked, giving himself a deeper voice. “I could have sworn I saw you there, or at least around campus.”

Enjolras got the gist that they were acting, and after a moment of hesitation, played along. “I don’t take astronomy, but I do take environmental geoscience. Maybe you’re thinking of someone else.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Maybe. Environmental geoscience is really interesting, though. Are you majoring in a science?”

“Uh-huh. Biochemistry. I’m really interested in . . .” Enjolras faltered, clearly searching for a good science term. Biology and chemistry were clearly not his forte. “. . . Chlorophyll.”

Combeferre snorted. Enjolras and Grantaire ignored it, trying their best to stay in the scene.

“Well, I’m an economics major,” Grantaire boasted. “But I do take a fair amount of science classes. Maybe I’ve seen you around the science center.”

“I’m only ever there to get too and from classes. It was probably someone else.”

Grantaire tried not to crack. Enjolras was playing hard to get.

“Give him some slack!” Courfeyrac complained. “You’re ruining the example. How else will Marius find love without a step-by-step guide?”

Enjolras waved his hands, breaking the moment completely. “I don’t know, Courf, and I don’t really care. I just came to tell you guys that I was done writing my meeting notes. I also wanted to ask why there are bags of clothes on my floor.”

Grantaire rubbed the back of his neck. “Courfeyrac took my shopping, and he didn’t want all my shit in the living room. Hope that’s okay.”

Enjolras looked at Grantaire’s new outfit, as if seeing it for the first time. His eyes trailed down Grantaire’s body before flicking back up.

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, distracted. “That’s okay. I—um—actually need to talk to you about something.”

Grantaire froze. Maybe using Enjolras as an example to help Marius learn how to hit on people had been the wrong move. Grantaire must have overstepped his boundaries. Or maybe Enjolras wanted to confront Grantaire about the sort-of kiss last night while Grantaire was reading out loud to him.

Grantaire took a deep breath to steady himself. “Sure.”

Enjolras walked back to his room. A stolen glance toward Combeferre and Courfeyrac gave Grantaire nothing more than a couple of shrugged shoulders and thumbs up, so that wasn’t much help. Resigning himself to whatever hell—heart crushing hell, probably—he was about to receive, Grantaire followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my tumblr: enjolryas
> 
> update will be coming sunday september 9th (just over a week from now)
> 
> thank you all for being patient with the updates! this week was a hassle, but it's over now :)
> 
> also, there will be at least 11 chapters. i'm obviously horrible at estimating how long this is going to take, but fun fact: this was only supposed to be around 7k when i first came up with the idea . . . lmao self.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: mentions of sex

Enjolras’s room was dark compared to the living room. Only a desk lamp and a bedside lamp were lit, and each illuminated his piles of notes. The papers were organized again, and Grantaire felt a prickling sense of shame for not having stopped Javert from rifling through his things.

Enjolras sat down on the edge of the bed, tucked a leg under him, and pushed the blanket off his shoulders. Then, he patting the mattress next to him. Grantaire got flashbacks to their accident in the bathroom at the bed and breakfast: Enjolras nearly falling, Grantaire catching him, their bodies pressed close.

Grantaire sat down a few feet away.

“I know this wasn’t what you wanted,” Enjolras began. Grantaire’s stomach was already in his throat. “But I have a proposal for you, and I think you should take it.”

Grantaire swallowed. “A proposal?”

“When I met with Valjean today, I mentioned the predicament you were in. He said—and just bear with me, okay?—he said that he would be happy to let Eponine and her little brother stay at his house. I know you’re trying to beat this three-day deadline, but it seems a bit unlikely, so I’m giving you another option.”

Grantaire was at a loss for words. Enjolras had done all that for him? But it was too good to work out. Grantaire could barely imagine Eponine and Gavroche staying with some random lawyer. Hell, Eponine had never had the best time with authority figures, especially ones that dealt with the law.

“Enjolras, that’s really nice, but—”

“There’s something else. When Combeferre and I went out to dinner, we pooled together all the info we had, called a few people, and pulled some strings. You’re supposed to have an interview with the owner of the cafe we went to on the first night here. If everything goes to plan, you can have a shift with Musichetta.”

Now Grantaire was really at a loss for words. Enjolras was looking at him intently, probably trying to judge Grantaire’s reaction.

Grantaire didn’t want to believe what he was hearing. Enjolras had found Grantaire a job. He’d found Eponine and Gavroche a place to stay, for the time being. And all of this piled up into more debt Grantaire would eventually have to repay.

Drawing his eyes away from Enjolras’s intense gaze, Grantaire’s face heated up. He wanted to bolt from the room, but he knew to leave would be rude and cowardly.

“Why?” Grantaire finally asked. It hadn’t come out as strong as he would have liked, but given his state, he was surprised it came out at all.

“Are we seriously arguing about this again?”

“I don’t know. Yes. I don’t—” Grantaire sighed. “I don’t deserve this. And I don’t know why you’re friends with me. Why you care so much.” He stole a glance back at Enjolras, only to see the other man’s face fall. “That’s not to say I don’t appreciate all this. I do. I really, really do. It’s just . . . someone else could have that job. Someone who needs it more. And I certainly don’t want to impose on Valjean’s hospitality. Won’t him housing my friends give him bias during the trial?”

Enjolras shook his head immediately. “Don’t worry about me. The trial is fine.”

“Is it though? The preliminary hearing is ten days away. If the judge, even after being given the information Valjean collected, still thinks you should stand trial, you’re screwed. There’s no way you can get off clean. Of course I’m worried about you.”

Enjolras pushed his hair back, vaguely shaking his head. “I’m worried about you, too, you know. I’m trying to help so that you won’t leave and go back to St. Petersburg. You told me how unhappy you were there. I can’t allow you to go back and continue being unhappy. You deserve to be happy, and if I can help, I will.”

Grantaire groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Why are you so nice?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re so _nice_ , and I love that about you.” Grantaire peaked through his fingers, only to find a distant smile forming on Enjolras’s lips. Grantaire wanted to see that smile every day. If going to a job interview and compelling Eponine to stay at Valjean’s would make that happen, then Grantaire was willing to at least try. “Thank you for doing all that. I’ll call Eponine and tell her.”

Grantaire shoved his hand in his back pocket and brought his phone out, ready to spend the next five minutes trying to place the call on such an outdated phone.

“Actually . . .” Enjolras’s voice trailed off.

Grantaire looked back at him. “Yeah?”

With his right leg tucked under him, Enjolras looked so human. There was something humanizing about seeing someone in their own room, their own personal space. Even still, despite how human he looked, Enjolras still had that same earnestness tattooed across his face. His eyes refused to meet Grantaire’s, but wherever they moved, they were deliberately placed there. Everything about Enjolras was deliberate. His eyes, his posture, his cadence.

From what Grantaire could tell, Enjolras was only thoughtless on three occasions:

  1. When he pouted. (He was doing that right now.)
  2. When he was sleepy. (He was probably sleepy right now, too.)
  3. When he was admiring his friends. (He probably wasn’t too impressed by anything Grantaire could offer, but Grantaire was going to try his best.)



“Yeah?” Grantaire repeated.

Enjolras looked back at him as if caught breaking a rule. “I’m sorry I couldn’t fix everything. I couldn’t get Eponine a job, even though she needs one, too. And you guys aren’t even living together.”

“Enjolras, don’t apologize. What you did was really considerate. And hell, while you were away today, Courfeyrac and I found an apartment that’ll hopefully work out. If Eponine is cool living with Valjean for, I don’t know, a week or two, we can move in once the lease is figured out.”

Enjolras nodded, but the usual firecracker-flare in his eyes wasn’t there. “That’s good, Grantaire. At least you don’t have to deal with a long distance relationship.”

Grantaire paused. “Huh?”

“You don’t have to deal with a long distance relationship anymore.”

The gears turning in Grantaire’s brain came to a jarring halt. “What are you talking about?”

“You and Eponine.”

“Hold on. Back the fuck up.” Putting his hand to his forehead, Grantaire stared blankly at Enjolras. “You don’t think Eponine and I are dating, do you?”

Enjolras’s face was completely frozen, like a computer trying to process information. “You’re not?”

An inarticulate sound came from Grantaire’s throat, and he flung himself backward on the bed. What the hell was happening? How long had Enjolras thought this? Him and _Eponine_?

“Hell no,” said Grantaire, shaking his head as fast as he possibly could. He sat back up and began gesturing wildly with his hands. “Eponine’s gay. She’s like my long lost, bitter, older sister. One that’s mean but clearly loves you. I mean, she’s a softy at heart, but she won’t hesitate to beat you up. Don’t tell her I said that, though.”

Enjolras still had that loading-computer face. “Oh,” he said dully.

Grantaire buried his face in his hands again. “Oh my God. I can’t believe you thought that. Is that why you were so focused on the two of us being able to live together? So that we could, like, bang or something?” Grantaire cringed and punched Enjolras’s shoulder. “Jesus Christ, Enjolras. Oh my fucking God.”

Enjolras ignored the soft punch. “How was I supposed to know?” he cried. “You said you were roommates. You told her that you loved her on the phone call last night.”

“Yeah, that’s because I do love her. Like a sister.” Grantaire doubled over, laughing to himself. This was so fucking ridiculous. “Enjolras, _our_ relationship is more romantic than mine and Eponine’s. We’ve slept in the same bed together. We’ve slept against each other on a couch. When I was running from Javert and knocked you over, our legs were all tangled and we were completely pressed against each other. Not to mention when you pinned me down in the bar parking lot. That’s, like, PG-level second base. We just skipped first.”

Enjolras’s head dipped as he let out a baffled laugh. “I have no idea what the difference is between all the bases.”

Grantaire gave a faux gasp of offense. “The United States’ greatest future Supreme Court Justice doesn’t know which base is which? How will you ever lead us to salvation?”

Grantaire had meant it as a joke—had meant _all_ of this as a joke—but Enjolras’s face grew red and he looked away, shrugging his shoulders. Grantaire waited for him to send a joke back, but he never did.

Grantaire squinted at him. “You’re not . . . ?” He paused, trying to place his words in an order that would be least confrontational and awkward. Poor Enjolras had his full focus on the thread pattern on the comforter. “I mean, you’ve done stuff, right?”

Running his thumb over the fabric, Enjolras traced a circle. “Not really?”

Grantaire sat back, wondering if this was real. Enjolras, the ethereal statue he was, always looked like he’d fallen right off a pediment on the Parthenon and had crashed down onto Greek soil. Any good ancient Greek boy would have swooned at the sight. To think that Enjolras had never done anything baffled Grantaire beyond comprehension, and the only explanation that made sense was that Enjolras really was a god and that he’d taken some vow of chastity. Grantaire imagined marble renderings of Enjolras in the British Museum, the plaque under which read, “Enjolras, Virgin God of Liberty and Resolve.”

“I just haven’t wanted to,” Enjolras clarified, looking back at Grantaire. “I have bigger things to devote my time and effort to, and maintaining a relationship just wasn’t one of those things. It was never out of the question, but it wasn’t on the forefront of my mind. Besides, for almost all of high school I thought I was ace. While everyone was going through their relationship trial-and-error phase, I sat on the sideline.”

Grantaire snorted and nudged Enjolras’s shoulder. In actuality, it made sense. “You and I were opposites in high school. But it’s never too late to have your own trial-and-error phase. There are plenty of fish in the sea.”

That got him a sharp look from Enjolras. “I don’t need to have sex.”

Leaning back, Grantaire held up his hands. “I’m not saying you do. I’m just saying that—if you want to—you can date someone.”

He left out that fact that he was talking about himself.

“Virginity is a social construct,” Enjolras asserted. “The belief that men have to have sex in order to be valued by society is absolutely ridiculous. It doesn’t help that every depiction of a ‘cool’ guy in Hollywood is one that’s a player. Not that it’s bad to have lots of sex—it’s not at all. I’m just saying that people should be able to do what they want to do—or what they don’t want to do—and they shouldn’t have to worry that society will shame them for it. You know?”

There. There was that spark in his eyes again. Grantaire smiled meekly.

“Yeah, I know. I’m just saying that anyone would be lucky to have you.” Grantaire immediately backtracked, understanding the double-meaning of his words. “Not, like, _have_ you, have you.”

Enjolras’s blush worsened.

“I should probably shut up,” Grantaire said.

“Yeah, you probably should.”

They sat like that on the edge of the bed, neither of them brave enough to move. Or change the conversation. Or even breathe. (At least, Grantaire wasn’t.)

Finally, Enjolras slapped his hands against his thighs and stood resolutely, making his way over to his desk. “I’m going to get back to work. I haven’t been focusing on the ABC as much as I usually do since I’ve been busy stealing cats and going on cross-country road trips.”

“What’s the next rally gonna be about? Animal rights?”

“Gun violence. Not sure when it’s going to be, though. We still have a lot to plan.”

Grantaire got up and started heading to the door, but then thought better of it and pointed to where his shopping bags lay. “Thanks for letting me keep my shit here.”

“Of course. Anything you need.”

They stood across from one another for a few beats, and then Grantaire reached for the door handle.

“You know, since we’ve _basically_ been to second base,” Enjolras quickly said, “you can sleep in here if you want.”

Grantaire wheeled back around. Enjolras was still standing by the desk, his shoulders firm and his mouth in an uncertain line.  

“But only if you want to,” Enjolras reassured him. “I’d hate for you to be exiled to the couch. That wouldn’t be fair.”

Grantaire’s heart had gone from zero to sixty in three seconds flat. This was why having a crush on such a nice person was a problem. Shit like _this_ happened. But as horrible as sleeping next to Enjolras for a few days would be, it wouldn’t be as bad as living on a lumpy couch. Which, Grantaire thought, was probably taking advantage of Enjolras. A tiny part of Grantaire still had hope, though. What else could “You make me feel a lot of things” mean, if not for Enjolras liking him back?

Besides, Grantaire was not one to live with regrets. He liked to indulge.

“I’d love to sleep with you,” Grantaire teased. “I’m assuming you’ll take the left side, like last time?”

That unsure press of Enjolras’s lips turned into a smile. “Good memory. It’s too bad we don’t have the cats with us. We could recreate that whole night.”

Grantaire remembered the near-disaster with Javert. “Probably not the best idea. Why recreate past memories when we can make new, better ones?”

“I’ll hold you accountable to that.”

“I hope you do.”

They grinned at each other for a moment before Enjolras turned back to the desk. He sat down, opening his laptop, and then threw a glance over his shoulder. “Now shoo. I’ve got work to do, and as much as I love your company, you’d just be staring at me the whole time, and that would be distracting.”

“Then I’ll leave,” Grantaire said, and he opened the door. “‘Til we meet again.”

 

x x x

 

It was almost midnight by the time everyone went to bed. Grantaire, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre were exhausted, having Facetimed Jehan (or, more specifically, the cats) for a few hours. After brushing their teeth, they all went off to their respective rooms.

When Grantaire entered, he found Enjolras still typing away at the desk. His hair was pulled back into a bun, and he was wearing a tie-dye t-shirt—probably part of his pajamas. At the sound of Grantaire walking in, Enjolras turned around. The front of the t-shirt had the words “Intersectional Feminist” written in block letters.

Grantaire pointed. “How many political t-shirts do you own?”

As if considering, Enjolras looked towards his dresser. “They’re pretty much all political.”

Grantaire should have expected that. “Where do you get them all? Equality-R-Us?”

“No. Usually just for my birthday, or holidays, or sometimes the rallies I go to.” He looked back towards his computer longingly, as if an invisible force were inducing him to go back to whatever task he was working on. “I just need to finish up this blog post before bed, okay? And by the way, I hung your clothes up. Your stuff is on the right side of the closet.”

Grantaire shook his head. “You didn’t have to do that, Enjolras.”

“But I did. I wanted to. And I also found out in the process of doing so that you and Courfeyrac weren’t smart enough to get anything to sleep in, so you’ll have to borrow more of my stuff. You can choose any Equality-R-Us t-shirt you want. What’s mine is yours.”

Enjolras was already staring at the screen again, and he waved a distracted hand towards his dresser.

There were only two ways this could play out. Either Grantaire wore one of the t-shirts, which would probably drive him insane because they smelled like strawberries (i.e. _Enjolras_ ), or Grantaire told the truth and just told Enjolras that he never slept with a shirt on. The past few nights had been extenuating circumstances, but now that Grantaire was officially “settled in”, he felt obligated to say something. If he said nothing tonight, it would be too weird to say something later.

“I’m good with just my boxers, if that’s cool with you,” Grantaire said as casually as he could. He watched Enjolras closely, wanting to make sure that whatever Enjolras replied with was legitimate. But still, the computer had Enjolras’s full focus.

“Okay,” Enjolras mumbled.

Grantaire forced himself to keep from laughing and instead shrugged his shoulders. “Alrighty. I’ll just strip down, then.”

“Sounds good.”

So, Grantaire took his newly-bought clothes off right there, Enjolras still oblivious. He and Courfeyrac might have been insensible enough to forget to buy any casual stuff, but Grantaire made sure that getting underwear was their #1 priority. The ones he had on now were plaid, and they evidently matched the flannel he’d just removed. Grantaire was a creature of habit. He knew what he liked.

By the time Grantaire had found Enjolras’s laundry basket, Enjolras let out a sigh, shutting his computer and getting up from his seat.

“I’ve just gotta brush my teeth and stuff—” He faltered, looking Grantaire up and down. “Brush my teeth. And stuff. I’m doing that.”

Then he was out of the room.

Grantaire, as much as he wanted to make sure Enjolras was comfortable, just didn’t care anymore. If Enjolras was having second thoughts about them sleeping in the same bed, he needed to speak up. Enjolras, Grantaire knew, wasn’t the type of person to undergo he didn’t want to. At least Grantaire could rely on that.

And anyway, it felt weird to sleep wearing a full outfit. He’d barely gotten any sleep over the past few days—for multiple reasons, obviously—but the clothes didn’t help. Yeah, sleeping half-naked next to Enjolras would definitely distract him and would probably end in disaster, but as long as Grantaire kept to himself, nothing bad would happen. Enjolras wasn’t a mean person. This would totally be fine.

Grantaire was already beneath the sheets when Enjolras returned. Enjolras plugged his phone in and set it down on the nightstand before joining Grantaire. The mattress dipped, and the sheets slipped over Grantaire’s skin. Soft and weighted, sort of like if silk and cotton had a baby. Grantaire had no idea what material it was, but he was glad he took Enjolras up on the bed-sharing offer. This beat couchsurfing any day.

Enjolras turned off the lamp near the bed and settled down.

“I hope today was okay for you,” Enjolras said. “I never meant to overstep my boundaries when it came to helping you out. If I ever seem pushy or demeaning about it, please let me know.”

Grantaire put his arm under his head. “Nah, it’s cool. I know you mean well, and I needed a push to realize that I can allow people to help me.”

It felt weird admitting that out loud, but it was true. Grantaire had never gotten help from anyone because asking for help meant admitting weakness, and where would he be then? He relied on his laid-back wit. If that was taken away from him, what else did he have?

It was silent for a few moments, and Grantaire was contemplating whether or not he should say goodnight when Enjolras spoke again.

“The blog post I was just working on was about income inequality,” he said. “My friend, Feuilly, wrote most of it, but I was just editing it, and—”

“Is Feuilly the one with the motor oil stains on his shirt? I saw him yesterday, the morning you were arrested. Everybody from the ABC came to the apartment.”

“Yeah, that’s him. He’s a mechanic. So he wrote this blog post, and it was . . .” Enjolras paused. You could practically _hear_ the pout, even in the dark. “Feuilly was covered in oil stains, first thing in the morning?”

Grantaire thought back. “Yeah?”

“Oh man,” Enjolras said. “He must have been awake all night long disassembling the car we stole. I feel so bad now.”

“Wait—what?”

“Combeferre and I took the stolen car to Feuilly’s dad’s shop, and Feuilly promised to disassemble it enough that no one would be able to recognize it. I think he’s selling the parts. Not many people want such old parts, but the ones who do are willing to pay a lot for them. You know, supply and demand.”

Grantaire propped his head up with his hand. “That’s fucking savage. I think Joly also mentioned something about Feuilly making a killer seven-layer dip?”

“Yup. Feuilly is a jack of all trades.”

“He’s the full package. Handyman skills. Cooking skills. Politically aware. I’m surprised you haven’t already tapped that.”

He really couldn’t resist making the joke.

Grantaire heard the rustling of sheets and then suddenly a pillow came down on his face. Grunting, Grantiarerunted and burst into laughter and retched the pillow from Enjolras’s grasp.

“How dare you! I’m confiscating this. You’re never getting it back.” Grantaire tucked the pillow under his side. “Here I am, trying to improve your dating life, and you assault me with a pillow for all of my efforts. What kind of man are you?”

“First of all,” Enjolras retorted, “Feuilly is dating Bahorel. Second of all—”

“So, what I’m hearing is that if he _weren’t_ dating Bahorel, you would tap that?”

“I am absolutely willing to hit you with something harder than a pillow.”

“I recommend the lamp. I’ve always been told I need to lighten up.”

“By that logic, I should dump ice on myself. I’ve always been told I need to chill.”

Grantaire snorted. He thought about one-upping Enjolras again, but it was a slippery slope. He didn’t want to actually start arguing. “Just tell me about the income inequality post.”

By now, Grantaire’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness. He could see Enjolras purse his lips.

“Do you actually want to hear?” Enjolras asked.

“I do.”

Enjolras cocked an eyebrow. “I’ll tell you, but only if you give me my pillow back.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Grantaire mused, sucking in a breath of air. “That’s asking a bit much from me.”

Enjolras suddenly reached forward, attempting to tug the pillow from where it was pinned in between Grantaire and the mattress. Trying to impede the attack, Grantaire grabbed Enjolras’s arms, but the pillow was already halfway unpinned.

“No!” Grantaire shouted, just silent enough that it wouldn’t wake up Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Both of them broke into laughter.

Enjolras tugged harder. He pushed his foot against Grantaire’s thigh to get some leverage, and Grantaire pulled away, making Enjolras lose his purchase. With that one moment of vulnerability, Grantaire snatched the pillow away again and threw it off the bed. Enjolras made a light-hearted, frustrated noise before lunging towards the edge of the bed, trying to grab onto it before it hit the floor. Grantaire wrapped an arm around his torso before Enjolras could crawl off the bed and reclaim the pillow, and together they fell into a heap of exasperated giggles, Grantaire on top.

Grinning, Grantaire blew out a piece of Enjolras’s hair that had found its way between his lips. Enjolras’s chest rose and fell underneath Grantaire’s weight, and Grantaire’s own breath came out in matching bursts. Enjolras struggled beneath him.

“You’re a pillow thief,” Enjolras gritted out.

Grantaire smirked. “Says the cat thief.”

“I’m just going to steal your pillow, then.”

“Do it.”

Grantaire stared down at Enjolras, waiting for him to make the next move. The other pillow was only a foot away, and he bet that if Enjolras tried to grab it, he could easily pull it away and fling it off the bed as well. They would both just have to be pillow-less tonight.

Enjolras’s reached his arm up, and just as Grantaire went to stop him, Enjolras took the back of Grantaire’s neck in his head. Grantaire stopped, confused. The back of his neck tingled with the touch, and Enjolras’s thumb brushed lightly against the skin behind Grantaire’s ear.

“Can I kiss you?” asked Enjolras.

Grantaire’s breath hitched. Enjolras’s eyes were wide and his lips were parted. Here, with Enjolras splayed out beneath him, with Enjolras’s hair a halo of golden curls, Grantaire’s mind refused to work.

A word. A confirmation. That’s all he needed.

“Please,” Grantaire whispered.

They’re lips met, and Grantaire savored the contact. He opened his mouth against Enjolras’s, slipping his tongue into the other man’s mouth, and Enjolras let out a soft moan. It was barely audible, but it was enough, and Grantaire knew he would do anything to hear that sound again for as long as Enjolras would let him.

They suddenly broke apart to catch their breaths. Enjolras’s hand was still at the nape of Grantaire’s neck, and when he tugged Grantaire down again, he placed his other hand against Grantaire’s bare chest. For a moment, Grantaire’s bottom lip was caught between Enjolras’s teeth, and Grantaire closed his eyes, willing this moment to never end.

He ran his lips over Enjolras’s jaw and made his way to the delicate skin of his neck, working the skin between his teeth—gentle enough that he wouldn’t actually hurt Enjolras, but hard enough to elicit another faint moan. Enjolras snaked his hands across Grantaire’s chest until they were both were positioned on either shoulder. Grantaire felt a solid push, and before he knew it, Enjolras was on top of him, his legs straddling Grantaire’s torso. Enjolras pressed his lips to Grantaire’s again.

Grantaire’s boxers were tight; Enjolras’s weight on his abdomen was nearly killing him, and it took all his willpower to not rip Enjolras’s clothes off right then. Cupping one side of his face, Grantaire slipped his tongue into Enjolras’s mouth and ran his other hand under his shirt. As much as Grantaire loved seeing Enjolras in that feminist t-shirt, he would much prefer to see it on the floor, preferably next to the rest of his clothes.

Enjolras pulled away suddenly, his hands on either side of Grantaire’s head. He was hopelessly flushed and panting, his lips red from Grantaire’s stubble.

“Grantaire,” he breathed. “Stop.”

Grantaire faltered and pulled his hand back. He must have pushed Enjolras too far. He’d ruined everything.

But the series of kisses Enjolras dotted along Grantaire’s neck told a different story. “Not stop-stop. But I’d rather not go any further than this for now.”

Petals of relief spread across Grantaire’s skin where Enjolras’s lips touched. He didn’t hate Grantaire. He hadn’t decided this was a mistake.

Grantaire reached up to stroke his cheek, and Enjolras leaned into the touch.

“Of course, Enjolras.”

Shuttering a sigh, Enjolras leaned down again and laid a quick peck on Grantaire’s lips. He stayed hovering over Grantaire like that for a moment before unstraddling his legs and laying down against Grantaire’s side. They were both hard, but Enjolras ignored it, instead running his hand through Grantaire’s hair and brushing his lips against Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire laid back, happy to let Enjolras do what he wanted.

After a while, Enjolras’s kisses slowed, and he leaned back against the mattress, his head nestling into the lone pillow. He pulled Grantaire towards him. Breathing the in scent of strawberries, Grantaire allowed himself to be held to Enjolras’s chest. This close, Grantaire could tell the scent came from the fabric of the t-shirt. It must have been in the detergent or something. Still, his heart was threatening to beat from his chest and his body wanted to melt into the embrace. The best thing he felt, though, was an overwhelming sense of relief.

Enjolras liked him. More than liked him, if Grantaire knew anything about the man now holding him. And here they were, a cuddling tangle of limbs in the dark of night.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras’s eyes were closed, and he hummed in acknowledgment.

“How long have you liked me?”

Enjolras opened his eyes. He rubbed his thumb back and forth on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Since that first night in the car. You asked me if I would take you with me to DC, and . . . I don’t know. It was like tunnel vision.”

“A crash,” said Grantaire.

Enjolras tilted his head. “Huh?”

“For you, it was like tunnel vision. For me, it was like a crash.”

Enjolras didn’t answer for a long time. He held onto Grantaire tightly, the movement of his thumb never ceasing.

“So that crash . . .” Enjolras mulled it over. “Was there a specific moment when it occurred?”

“Same night. Same car ride.”

Even though Grantaire, with his face buried in Enjolras’s chest, wasn’t even looking directly at him, he could feel Enjolras nodding to himself.

“We’re such idiots,” Grantaire mumbled. His head bounced up and down as Enjolras let out a soft laugh.

“Yeah. But we’re each other’s idiots.”

Grantaire looked up, resting his chin on Enjolras’s collarbone. Here in the night, Enjolras wasn’t as lit up as he usually was, but the fresh glow of his cheeks did all the work the sun usually accomplished. Grantaire laid his head back down, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my tumblr: enjolryas
> 
> sorry for the one day late update! I had serious wifi issues. hope the content was enough to make up for it, though.
> 
> next update should be sep. 20th (ten days from now). and I just want to thank everyone who takes time out of their day to read this--it means a lot to me!
> 
> also the t-shirt enjolras is wearing is this one (they have tons of really cute stuff!!) -- https://greenboxshop.us/products/intersectional-feminism


	11. Chapter 11

Grantaire awoke to the sound of an alarm. His eyes snapped open, barely able to see anything but the faint light coming in through the blinds, and he automatically reached for his bedside table to turn the phone alarm off, only to find his hand not slapping wood, but a person. Enjolras grunted, letting out an “Ow!”

Gasping, Grantaire sat up. “Shit, sorry!”

Enjolras shifted beside him and turned the blaring alarm off, and looked back at Grantaire. They sat staring at each other for a few moments before bursting into laughter. Grantaire hid his face in his hands. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again, but the apology didn’t sound as genuine since he was still laughing. He couldn’t help it. 

Smiling, Enjolras lifted Grantaire’s head and kissed him. One quick. Another longer. Grantaire’s laughter dissipated as he leaned in and felt the weight of Enjolras’s lips against his own. It still felt like a subtle  _ zing  _ every time they touched, and if that  _ zing  _ weren’t so noticeable, he would have hardly believed this was actually happening. If he went back in time to that night in the parking lot and told his past self that he would eventually make out with Velvet Man, he would have hardly believed it. But here they were in bed together. 

Then, Enjolras broke away and pulled the covers back, standing and making his way to the closet. Grantaire’s side became suddenly cold, and he let out a whine. 

“Come back.”

“The alarm went off. It’s time to get up.” Enjolras opened the closet door and started looking through the hangers.

“It really isn’t,” Grantaire said, flopping onto the part of the mattress where Enjolras had previously bed. At least it was still warm there. 

Enjolras pulled out a button-down shirt and pair of slacks. “We both have meetings this morning. Me and Valjean, and then you and the manager of the cafe.”

Suddenly, Grantaire remembered the job interview. 

“Fuck,” he said. 

Enjolras turned and raised an eyebrow as he pulled off his t-shirt to put the nicer shirt on. “I thought you agreed to do the interview?”

“I am, I am.” Grantaire sat up, rubbing his neck. Sleeping up against someone was definitely worth it, but it certainly did do a number on your neck. “I still haven’t called ‘Ponine, though, and what if I don’t get the job? I doubt I’ll hear back by the time our lease is up, and she needs to know whether or not to move.”

Grantaire watched as Enjolras fit the shirt over his shoulders and began buttoning, his fingers delicately fastening each button. Grantaire wanted him to come back to bed. It was way too early in the morning and Enjolras was way too disheveled looking for any type of official undertaking, like a meeting with a lawyer, to happen right now. No matter how nicely Enjolras dressed, he wouldn’t be able to hide his tangle of curls. 

“You have sex hair,” Grantaire informed him. 

Enjolras stopped buttoning, and even in the dim lighting, Grantaire noticed a faint bruise peeking out over his collar. 

“What?”

“You’re hair is all messed up. So you should totally come back to bed because you aren’t presentable enough for the outside world.”

Enjolras put a hand to his head and tried running his fingers through to no avail. Sighing, he quickly checked his phone. “I was planning on showering when I got back, but I guess I’ll just have to do it now, given the time. While I do that, you can . . .”

Enjolras voice trailed off as he took in Grantaire’s own appearance. At first, Grantaire thought he was actually considering returning to the warmth of the covers. Then he waved his hand. 

“Your hair is kind of a mess too,” Enjolras said, “but it sort of always is, so it’s normal. You’ll be fine. Just get dressed and meet Combeferre so he can tell you everything you need to know about the interview. He’s probably up already.”

Grantaire wanted to protest. When he’d agreed to this interview, he was never told it would be so early. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d gotten must rest last night. But before he could say anything, Enjolras was out the bedroom door in a whirlwind of golden knots and he threw a smile over his shoulder before heading to the shower. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys I'm REALLY sorry for the late and incredibly short update. believe me, if I could have updated on time and with some actual plot, then I would have. life is just very, very busy right now. but I haven't forgotten about this! 
> 
> I am also really sorry to let you know that this fic is going on hiatus until november. A) I never expected it to go on for this long, and B) I was not prepared for it. but I love writing this fic, and I love that I can bring joy to some of you who read it. SO, when november rolls around, there will be another (full-length) update!!
> 
> there should be two chapters left.


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